Ne Ver', Ne Boisya
by TwistedGoth
Summary: AU. 1946. The Soviet Union has begun the expulsion of Germans from new Soviet lands. Two brothers try to fight their extradition, and a mysterious Russian offers to help out. Not for free, of course. His price? A date. But a date can be trouble. And so can the Russian mafia. Oh well, too late now. Better to just go with it. Russia x Germany
1. Razniye Nochi

**A/N **: Unlike my others, this story is meant to be fairly fast-paced, corny, and not to be taken all that seriously. Think of this more as a B-movie good time.

**Pairing** : Russia x Germany. Other characters included are : Prussia, Lithuania, Belarus, Austria, Hungary, Spain, and France. If you're wondering, in almost all of my stories, Roderich is ALWAYS an ambassador. That's like my head cannon. XD

**Warnings! **: AU. Human characters. Set in former East Prussia in 1946. Violence, language, illegal activities, Russian mafia, homicide, bribery, extortion, etc. The usual things you can expect from me. Since I made Russia so batshit insane in the other one, I decided to tap into his...erhm..._sweeter _side, if you will, in this one. Some historical facts may be incorrect and/or distorted for my own personal gain.

**ALSO** : **Yes**, I am fully aware that the Russian mafia did not thrive at all until the fall of the Soviet Union and communism, and was practically just a bunch of prison thugs before that. Please refer to the last sentence in the paragraph directly above. :D

I am dedicating this story to **Sanguocrazy**, whose crazy fan girl rants and awesome support help me out so much in pushing out **Zachem Ya **and **Acceleration Waltz**, and whose one single, simple lament was that Russia and Germany never got to hook up in a 'normal' (read : non Stockholm Syndrome) way, so... No more! This is for you. Thanks for all your kind words. 感謝!

Thanks for reading, and **drop a line **when you have a minute. Always love to hear from you awesome guys.

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><p><strong>NE VER', NE BOISYA<strong>

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><p><strong>Chapter 1<strong>

**Razniye Nochi**

It had been founded in 1255.

Nearly 700 years of history in Königsberg. Seven centuries of castles and monuments and memories, seven centuries as the strong point of Prussia, as the glory of the East, as the model city.

It took the Soviets only one year to wipe it away.

They had lived here their entire lives, and they had seen it in its glorious days, and they had seen it bombed into unrecognizable rubble in the war.

But it had always been Königsberg. It had always been home.

So it didn't seem _right_, and it didn't seem _fair_, and it didn't even seem _legal_ when the war ended and the Soviets came and claimed Königsberg as their own, and Ludwig and Gilbert were forced to watch as the flags were torn down and replaced with the Soviet emblem, as the signs were all suddenly written in Cyrillic, and as all of the neighbors were given papers of eviction and forced from the homes they had always known.

The Russians came, and moved into the homes that used to be German.

There was no stopping it, because they had lost the war, and the Russians had won, and that made them wrong and the Russians right.

Ludwig could only watch as Gilbert, always such a proud and vociferous Prussian, Gilbert, who had offered his life willingly for Prussia in the war, fell further and further into depression as the country he loved was dissolved into only a faint memory.

Everyone was gone now.

Only Russians walked the ancient city streets.

They were the only ones left. Or very nearly.

It didn't seem fair.

Gilbert couldn't stand to go outside anymore, and all of the duties of the household had fallen upon Ludwig, who had only just turned eighteen, and the meager salary bestowed upon Gilbert for his service was barely enough to sustain the both of them.

Gilbert just wouldn't move. Ludwig could barely keep his head above the water.

It was frustrating, to watch your home being usurped and to be so helpless. To see the homes around you, which had once been friendly German neighbors, inhabited with Russians who couldn't understand you, and seemed to fear you.

It wasn't easy for Ludwig, but it was so much harder for Gilbert.

When they had been given the first eviction papers, Gilbert had sat down at the table and burst into tears, burying his face in his arms and blubbering to no one, and Ludwig had slipped away and got on the phone, calling on the only resource he had.

The order was cancelled.

A close call.

Maybe it was just part of the Soviet Union now, but Königsberg was still home. Gilbert would die of a broken heart before he abandoned it and let the Russians run him off to where they would.

It just didn't seem fair.

That had been the first year.

Things were getting a little better, and Ludwig had almost gotten used to it, and it was just dumb luck that a few of the Russians who had moved into the city knew a fair bit of German, and he was able to go about things almost normally.

He walked the streets, sometimes, when Gilbert was moping, and seeing the great buildings around him was comforting, even if the people he met were different.

Gilbert had always warned him that the Soviets were dangerous, and that he needed to be careful when he went out, and Ludwig had always brushed him off as bitter and paranoid. Of course Gilbert hated the Russians; he always had, even before the war had started, and when the radio had announced the non-aggression pact, Gilbert had leapt to his feet and tossed the radio across the room in a fit of anger.

Ludwig was leery of them, and maybe he was a little resentful too, but he was not afraid.

But there were times...

Sometimes, when he walked down the streets, it seemed to him that there were eyes following him, and when he looked over his shoulder, there was a tall man, well-groomed and straight-postured, and he was always watching him come and go.

He recognized him, vaguely, as one of the Russians that had moved into the largest house down the street, formerly the German mayor's home, and even though he never spoke, it seemed that Ludwig ran into him far more frequently than what could have just been a statistic.

He always smiled, but Ludwig avoided him nonetheless, brushing past him when they met on the street and speeding his pace when he stood in his doorframe.

Gilbert did not know.

If Ludwig had told him that there was a Russian who seemed to have a habit of popping up wherever he was? Oh, God. Gilbert would have caused a scene.

...like he usually did.

That was why, on the odd occasion that Gilbert did go out, Ludwig stuck firmly at his side, because Gilbert's temper was a very, very short fuse, and so was his self-control.

So they were now, as they walked down the streets, Gilbert's hands tucked in his pockets and head bowed, and Ludwig was at his side, head high. Gilbert just couldn't bear to see the shop signs in Russian, and spent most of the time staring at the sidewalk.

And even though Ludwig enjoyed the times that Gilbert came out of the house...

Today was not a good day.

They walked along, and when they came to the end of the road, they heard the sounds of construction. Gilbert finally looked up, and when he did, he paled so terribly that Ludwig was afraid he would faint.

The great sign at the end of the road, that held the word 'Königsberg' so proudly, was being stripped off.

Before Ludwig could stop him, Gilbert had bolted forward, and kicked the metal post at the bottom. The quiver up the metal made the men stop and look down, and Gilbert barked up at them, "What the hell are ya doin'?"

They hesitated, and then one of them cried, in heavily accented German, "We change sign! You don't know? It's called Kaliningrad now! Pretty name, yeah?"

Then they carried on working as though nothing had happened, having either no care or no knowledge that their words were like daggers.

It wasn't Königsberg anymore.

"You can't do that! Hey! Listen! _Hey_, you can't fuckin' do that! It's Königsberg!"

Gilbert paced back and forth below them, stomping and shouting and absolutely irate, and Ludwig stood back, staring up at the sign in defeat.

It wasn't Königsberg anymore.

Gilbert kicked the post again, and the man above cried, "Stop it!"

Gilbert didn't, and now his voice was so high that it was cracking, and Ludwig thought that he would burst into tears.

Königsberg, that Gilbert adored.

"But it's not Kaliningrad," Gilbert screeched from below, stomping his foot on the sidewalk as the men above continued to strip the sign of its letters, "It's Königsberg! Hey! Are you listenin'? It's not _Kaliningrad_!" The name fell from his lips with disgust.

They continued to ignore him, and Ludwig could only watch in silence as Gilbert reached out, grabbing the sign posts with his hands and shaking it as hard as he could. The men above sent him looks of annoyance, but carried on.

"It's _Königsberg_! Stop! _Stop_! You can't do this!"

It was no use. There was no stopping it.

It wasn't Königsberg anymore.

It was Kaliningrad now.

...they lived in Kaliningrad now. The word felt foreign and unfriendly on his tongue. Not like home.

Gilbert was becoming hysterical now, kicking the posts over and over again and screaming uselessly. Ludwig finally had no choice but to come over and grab the irate Gilbert's shirt in his hands and tug him back, even though, in all honesty...

He wanted to scream and kick as much as Gilbert.

It hurt him more than anything to see his brother like this, on the verge of a breakdown, as his home and history were erased beneath his feet, but what could they do?

They were lucky to even still be here.

It was made all the more obvious when they passed a familiar police officer on the street on the way back. Police officer, maybe, or maybe he was a KGB officer, sometimes it was hard to tell, but either way it had been him who had served them with those original eviction papers the year before, and it had been him who had hounded them on the streets when they passed, with slurs and foul looks.

He met Gilbert's eyes as Ludwig dragged him by, and he smiled smugly.

"Still here, are you?"

Ludwig shot him a nasty glare, and Gilbert finally fell still, but Ludwig knew that Gilbert's silence was more dangerous than his screeching, and tried to tug him along all the faster.

The house was in sight.

"You two are about the only ones left. Good riddance to German trash, I say," the officer drawled, pencil in hand, and Gilbert bristled so terribly in his arms that Ludwig had to reach out and pinch his side painfully. Gilbert jumped, sent him a stern look, and then bit his tongue, ducking his head and grumbling something unintelligible.

An assault would result in arrest, and arrest would result in immediate deportation.

Even if it was Kaliningrad now, it would always be Prussia to Gilbert. He would not be parted with it.

The uniformed officer snorted, and then turned his back, scribbling away on his paper as he went, and he threw back, "It won't be much longer. You should probably start packing."

Gilbert started screeching again (something he had gotten surprisingly good at this past year) and Ludwig was upon him in a second, snatching up his collar and pulling him back.

Sometimes...

"Fuck off, you Red son of a bitch! We were building castles when you were still makin' huts out of _snow_, you goddamn—"

Sometimes Ludwig felt like the older brother, rather than the other way around.

As Gilbert struggled against him, he could swear that there were eyes upon him, and it was with a furrowed brow that he looked around the street, as his brother made a scene. Again. He felt the flush of embarrassment on his cheeks when he realized that _everyone _was watching, and it was with a hissed, "Gilbert, come on!" that he forced Gilbert down the street.

Mortifying.

As they went, and as people parted for them, he could still feel the eyes following him. When he finally reached the front door, and shoved Gilbert up towards it, he looked back over his shoulder.

Someone was watching him.

It was no surprise as to whom.

There he was, on the other side of the street, pale hair combed smoothly and pressed suit buttoned all the way up to his chin, standings straight and calm, hands tucked behind his back as he watched, eyes cool and serious and shoulders loose.

That Russian.

Odd violet eyes fell upon him, as they always did, and when their gazes met, he could not help but shiver.

What did he _want_?

He froze up, hands still clenching Gilbert's shirt, and at his sudden immobility Gilbert broke free. Maybe he would have gone off after the officer if he hadn't looked up and seen the Russian, too. An odd hesitation, as Gilbert struggled with fight or flight, and then he looked at Ludwig, back at the Russian, then he reversed the roles and reached up and grabbed Ludwig's collar, forcing him through the threshold.

The Russian's eyes bored into his own, until Gilbert slammed the door shut, and locked it.

Ludwig looked over at his brother, and foundered under Gilbert's accusative gaze.

"Who's that?" he asked, and Ludwig could only shrug a shoulder nonchalantly.

"I don't know. Who can say?"

Gilbert eyed him for a second, in one of those intense older brother moments, and Ludwig shifted his weight uncomfortably, but then Gilbert only backed away, muttering, "Well, don't talk to him," as he wandered off.

"Sure," Ludwig called back, and relaxed.

He was glad they were back home.

...even if it was Kaliningrad now.

Days passed.

Gilbert's mood was sinking down ever lower, and sometimes when Ludwig came home, he was sitting at the kitchen table, empty bottles of beer before him, and when he looked up, there was only despair in the once proud crimson eyes.

Only hopelessness.

"I never thought it would turn out like this," he whispered, voice slurred and sad.

Ludwig could only shake his head and respond, "Yeah, neither did I."

Gilbert would only smile, half-heartedly, and drop his head down.

Ludwig let him sleep it off. It was easier that way.

The days turned into weeks, and then suddenly it had been two months since the renaming of the mighty city, and Ludwig noticed that his encounters with the Russian were increasing.

He still did not tell Gilbert.

It seemed harmless enough. Only staring. No harm had ever come from staring.

Right?

Soon it went beyond staring.

One morning he went to collect the mail, and a tiny, plain envelope had been thrust inside with all the others. He opened it up on the couch, as Gilbert snored away from his bedroom, and when Ludwig read it, he felt an odd guilt, as though he were doing something he should not.

It was a letter. Very short, and very blunt.

The handwriting was neat and tidy.

_Dear German, _

_You don't know me, but I fought against the Prussians on the Eastern front, and I was impressed. The city is very old, and very honorable, and I find it considerably dishonorable that the new government has decided to change its name. Of course, I enjoy my new house, but I regret that it was required through such unfriendly circumstances. It will not be long before they come for you again. You have never been unkind to your new neighbors, and I find it much more respectable to be proud in the presence of enemies than hateful. I admire your politeness. One day, perhaps we can look upon each other as friends, rather than enemies._

_If you ever find yourself in trouble, come to the house at the end of the street. _

_P.S. - Be careful next week. I hear another order is in the making to expel you._

That was it.

No signature, but he _knew _who it was from; that pale-haired Russian, who always seemed to bump into him.

Offering help.

He probably could not be trusted. None of them could. Gilbert had taught him that much, at least.

Still, Ludwig folded the letter neatly and tucked it away in his own room, just in case.

Just in case.

When Gilbert woke up, Ludwig greeted him and carried on as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

And who knew? Maybe the Russian would prove himself useful in the future.

For now, he focused himself on Gilbert, and pushed the mysterious note from the equally mysterious Russian from his mind, because what it had said was true, and he had to stay alert and aware.

They would come again.

He told Gilbert that he had a suspicion about a certain impending eviction, a hunch so to speak, and Gilbert had already made a phone call, but they would still come again after that. And again after that, and again after that.

It didn't take long.

There was a knock on the door not even two weeks after the letter arrived.

Ludwig went to open it, as Gilbert watched warily from the kitchen table, and as soon as the door opened, his heart sank.

It was that officer again.

The man looked agitated, and Gilbert was suddenly on his feet, pushing Ludwig off to the side and standing widely in the frame, one hand on either side and legs spread, as though he were worried that the officer would try to enter the house.

Not an irrational fear.

But this time the officer only stood there, papers in hand, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, as Gilbert and Ludwig stared him down, and then he took a combative step forward.

Gilbert tensed for war.

Finally, the officer spoke.

"I had papers ordering your removal," he said, voice very low and very dangerous, "and yet at the last second I get a call from the governor, staying your expulsion. This is the _third _time this has happened."

Gilbert's fingers gripped the doorframe firmly, Ludwig standing tall and calm behind him, as the officer looked back and forth between them with thinly veiled anger.

"What a coincidence," Gilbert drawled, brow high and eyes dark, and the officer's fingers clenched the paper.

Ludwig nearly snorted.

Coincidence? Hardly.

The first save had come from Roderich, the Austrian ambassador to Germany, whom Ludwig had met years ago during the war when the Austrian had been on a diplomatic stay in Königsberg. When the first expulsion papers had been presented, Ludwig had called Roderich as a last ditch, desperate effort, and Roderich had somehow broken through the government walls and bought them months of time.

The second save had come from Francis, the French Minister of Foreign Affairs, an old friend of Gilbert's, and after calling Roderich had worked so well, Gilbert had called him, and sure enough, Francis had pulled through and the papers were cancelled.

The third time—this time—it had been Antonio who had come to the rescue, the First Vice President of Spain, another old friend of Gilbert's from before the war, and, like Roderich and Francis before him, he had come through with flying colors, using his influence in foreign affairs to their advantage.

Roderich had saved them. Then Francis. Now Antonio.

Three friends.

...they only _had_ three friends.

"I don't know _who _you're calling," the officer ground out, "but it's not going to work forever. I'm going to the mayor this afternoon, and if I have to, I'll hound after you until you fuck up, and then I'll arrest you, and I'll make _up _a reason to deport you—"

Ludwig opened his mouth to retort; an empty threat, because _now _there was no one _left _to call, and if the papers came again then there was nothing more to do, but before he could find his voice, a shadow was cast over them, and a heavy hand had fallen on the officer's shoulder.

A silence, and then all three of them looked up, at the tall, broad-shouldered man that was suddenly hovering over them. And they all seemed to recognize him at the same time; that enigmatic Russian, always well-dressed, who stood over in corners and doorframes and shadows, and whose eyes were always upon Ludwig.

Gilbert tensed and brought himself in front of Ludwig, all but shielding him from view (had the top of his eyes not towered above Gilbert's head), and Ludwig felt that same old stir of unease and restlessness as the officer gawked up at the huge man, and sputtered a greeting in Russian.

Who _was _he?

Smiling, the tall Russian's fingers gripped the officer's shoulder in what looked like a very uncomfortable vice, and then he looked up, calm, pale eyes meeting Ludwig's immediately. Gilbert bristled and cleared his throat, lifting himself up onto his toes to block the gaze, and the Russian snorted, smile never faltering as he said, to the officer, "Now, now, comrade, there's no need for such words! We must treat our German neighbors as well as we do our own, yeah? Especially if they are not bothering anyone. I would hate for something unfortunate to result from such harassment..."

The officer tensed beneath him, and then finally nodded his head, very stiffly, and it was with an equally stiff voice that he asked, "May I be excused, comrade?"

The tall Russian smiled, and lifted his heavy hand. As soon as the contact was broken, the officer turned on his heel and stalked off, and Gilbert watched him go, but Ludwig's eyes were caught under the Russian's.

"I'm sorry that that had to happen. I can't stand such rudeness," he said, voice very soft and calm, and Gilbert looked up at him with something that could have been horror, and with a sudden jolt he tried to shove Ludwig back through the doorframe. The Russian's eyes never left him, even for a second, and he smiled tranquilly as Gilbert finally knocked Ludwig far back enough to shut the door.

At the very last second, Ludwig called, politely, "Thank you!" and right before the door slammed, he could see the Russian's smile widen.

It was only the courteous thing to do, but Gilbert still sent him a furious look nonetheless, but it was short lived, and then they both collapsed at the kitchen table, and the mood was dour.

They both knew that they had played their very last card.

"He said he was going to see the mayor," Gilbert grumbled, face buried in his hands, and Ludwig stared down at the table with a furrowed brow. "Can the mayor control expulsions?"

"I don't know, Gilbert," Ludwig whispered, seriously, "I don't know. Maybe." He tapped his fingers on the table, watching Gilbert out of the corner of his eye. "Maybe," he finally ventured, carefully, "Maybe we should just go, Gilbert. It would be safer, just to go to the West, don't you think? Maybe we could go to Austria, or France... It would be safer."

But Gilbert only shook his head, stubbornly, as Ludwig knew he would, and it was with a dreadful seriousness that he breathed, "I'll die before I leave Prussia. This is my home."

Ludwig furrowed a brow, and even though some part of him wanted to say, petulantly, 'It's not Prussia, anymore, Gilbert!,' he just couldn't bring himself to do it.

It would crush Gilbert.

For now, he could only sit there in silence, as the threat of being forced from their homeland hung over them, and even as Gilbert sat there, hopeless, Ludwig was considering...

Contemplating.

He drummed his fingers on the table, so lost in his thoughts that he didn't even notice when Gilbert bowed his head and fell asleep.

Well.

What could it hurt?

Maybe he could seek help from the enemy.


	2. Razniye Lyudi

**A/N **: A super special thanks to **RebelxMusic**, who actually dedicated a story to me. ;_; I was so seriously flattered. Go read it now, and then come back. **Potato Vodka Love Songs**. Go _NOW_. It's awesome. I cried a little bit in glee. Thank you so much, again!

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><p><strong>Chapter 2<strong>

**Razniye Lyudi**

Time always dragged by when you were expecting the worst.

The unwelcome morning visit hung heavy over the day, and by the time the sun loomed on high at the stroke of noon, there was no denying the dread.

The distant threat of a fateful meeting...

It was one thing, just to think you would have to leave your home. Ludwig could handle that. He no longer felt welcome in this city. He could handle leaving.

Truthfully, he would _rather _leave. He longed to go to Austria, or the Western half of the carved up Germany, or even France or Spain. Anywhere but here. Anywhere that he was not surrounded by the enemy.

He would have left in a second, and he wouldn't have looked back.

But, God help him, Gilbert just wouldn't accept it. As the sun rose ever higher, he just sat there at the table, a bottle of alcohol clenched in his hand, and Ludwig watched him, pacing the tile restlessly as Gilbert put the top of the bottle to his lips, apparently determined to drink himself to death before the Russians could send him packing.

Even though he _understood _Gilbert's anger and longing, that didn't change the fact that Gilbert's stubbornness and pride was putting them in a much more difficult spot than was necessary. What was the point of staying here?

Prussia was dead. It wasn't coming back.

Why couldn't Gilbert accept it?

"Gilbert," he began, sternly, "We should go. It's getting too hard to stay. We need to leave before we get in over our heads. Don't you understand we're part of the Soviet Union now? Is that what you _want_?"

He did not want to upset Gilbert, but it was true, and what did they know about surviving in this new government? Did Gilbert _really _want to stay in this house, in this land, within these borders, so badly that he was willing to live within the boundaries of the USSR?

Apparently, the answer was _yes_.

"Ludwig," he said, voice slurred and heavy as he tried to keep his unfocused gaze on his brother, "Look at this house. My great-grandparents build this house. My father was born here. I was born here. How could I leave it? I raised you here. Doesn't that mean anything to you? Generations of history here. This land was always Prussia. It was always supposed to be Prussia. Just because the Russians stuck a big flag in it and changed the name doesn't mean it's not Prussia anymore... Oh, God, my father would've _died _before he ever let the Russians run him out. He would have set the house on fire so that no Russian could ever live in it. Can you—can you imagine, a Russian sitting here, eating at this table? Our table? Don't you care? I grew up here... Even though they weren't—I mean, I know they weren't your real parents and all, but mom and dad loved you. Do you think they'd want ya to just give up and leave? This is _our _house. Ours."

As Gilbert broke off and muttered to himself and the time passed, Ludwig felt the uncomfortable squirm of anger in his stomach, but it was not anger for the Russians.

It was anger for Gilbert.

Gilbert, who sat there and spoke to him as though he were somehow betraying this land by wanting to leave it, as if it were his duty, somehow, to die along with Prussia. Gilbert, who spoke to him as though he were somehow shaming the family that had taken him in. As if he didn't care as much as Gilbert did about losing years of family history. But it hurt him just as much, and why did Gilbert have to turn everything around?

Gilbert, who sat there and drank and swore that he would not be parted with Prussia, no matter _what_, who sat there sometimes in his darker moments and pulled out his gun and spun the barrel absently, who hung his head in depression and lamented about how much he wanted to die because his country was dissolving beneath his feet.

Anger because Gilbert said such things so openly, so seriously, having no care that his words stung Ludwig, who was left on the sidelines to watch Gilbert fall further into the abyss.

Anger because Gilbert said he would die if he was parted with Prussia, as if he had suddenly forgotten that he still had Ludwig at his side. As if he didn't realize that killing himself would _hurt _Ludwig, as if drinking himself to death had absolutely no effect on his little brother.

Gilbert was thoughtless.

He hated Gilbert for it sometimes.

Ludwig hated himself, too, for resenting Gilbert.

What else could be expected from proud Gilbert? Gilbert had lived for Prussia.

But it still hurt.

He had stayed here at Gilbert's side this terrible year. He had kept Gilbert's head above the water. He had taken up the reigns of responsibility. He had held Gilbert's hand and assured him that everything would be alright. He had made sure that Gilbert never actually pulled the trigger.

Yet Gilbert didn't stop to think that leaving this city would be so much better for Ludwig.

Gilbert thought only about himself. About his dead country.

It hurt.

Ludwig wanted to leave. He couldn't. How could he?

If he left Gilbert alone...

Gilbert looked up at him blearily, and suddenly smiled, saying, "I think the end's comin', Ludwig. Can't you feel it?"

A silence.

Ludwig _could _feel it, as Gilbert's eyes darkened into hopelessness, and he could sense the end coming near as well as Gilbert could. They had dodged papers too many times. It would come to an end.

Maybe Gilbert really would set the house on fire.

Suddenly Gilbert dropped his head down on the table, and muttered, as he drifted slowly into unconsciousness, "Hey, if they start takin' us out, and there's no way around it, I want you to get outta here, alright? Promise me you'll go to France or Spain... Somewhere safe."

The air chilled, and Ludwig could only asked, darkly, "And you? Where will you go?"

Gilbert raised a wobbly hand up until it was resting on the table next to his head, and Ludwig could only watch in silent horror as he folded his rough hand into the shape of a gun and placed his index finger against his temple. And then he laughed, and muttered, "Bang."

He laughed again, not even caring how much his silent oath frightened Ludwig, and with a heavy sigh, he passed out.

Ludwig stood there in the kitchen, arms limp at his sides, and stared down at the unconscious Gilbert with a furrowed brow.

Oh, Gilbert...

Stupid, stubborn, prideful Gilbert. Didn't he even _care _that if he killed himself, Ludwig would be left alone? Didn't he?

Selfish.

Gilbert had been happy, not so long ago.

What could he do? How could he leave, and lose Gilbert to the winds? If Gilbert really did shoot himself, the blood would be on his hands, in the end.

The clock ticked.

He leaned back against the counter, heart hammering and chewing his thumbnail, staring blankly ahead as his mind raced.

What could he do? That officer had it out for them. Time was running out.

What could he do? Gilbert would kill himself.

The minutes ticked by.

He loved Gilbert.

What could he do?

...he would have Gilbert be happy again, like before.

_If you ever find yourself in trouble, come to the house at the end of the street. _

The thought had been there all along, but he was so reluctant to act upon it...

Who knew what he would be getting himself into? What kind of potential danger.

Gilbert moaned quietly as he shifted in the depths of unconsciousness, and Ludwig straightened up, feeling the hopelessness overwhelming him.

What choice did he have?

Gilbert would never have wanted him to seek help from a Russian, no matter how low they had gotten, but stupid Gilbert had _forced _him into this position with his careless words...

He had no _choice_.

Sucking in a great breath to steady himself, he crept silently to his room and dressed himself neatly, smoothing back his loose hair, and when he fished the hidden note from out of his dresser, tucking it neatly into his breast pocket, he only felt slightly ill.

Well. It was for Gilbert.

He had no choice.

When he snuck stealthily to the front door, he sent the reposing Gilbert one last glance of agitation from the corner of his eye, and then burst out into the street.

The noon sun glinted off the streets and the shingled roofs, catching the windows and glaring into white spots. He squinted his eyes and looked over his shoulder, anxiously, to make sure that Gilbert had not come out of his stupor to come after him, and to make sure that that annoyance of an officer was not following him.

Oh, God, what would he be getting himself into? Who knew what this Russian really wanted?

Sick with adrenaline and helplessness, he walked stiffly down the street, hands tucked in his pockets, and when he could see that grand house looming up at the end, he shuddered.

The Russian was inside.

Gilbert would _kill _him, if he knew what he was doing.

That strange Russian, always silent and smiling, lurking here and there and watching him come and go with cool, thoughtful eyes and loose shoulders and perfect posture. Tall and handsome and possibly dangerous, and yet for some reason he had extended his hand in an offer of help...

But at what price?

For a second, he fell still on the opposite end of the street, standing there silently as the cars passed slowly by, and he felt a wave of unease wash over him. The house had seemed much friendlier when the German mayor had lived there.

But now it only seemed imposing, and all of the flowers in the front yard had died, and the Russian had obviously not bothered to tend the garden, now just a big patch of dusty brown earth, and only the rose bushes by the walk were still alive, if not overgrown and unkempt. The curtains on all of the windows were drawn together. Iron bars had been placed before them. The shutters had been painted red, where they had once been white. A black, polished car sat in the drive, spotless and meticulously groomed. Expensive.

The simple ring doorknocker had been replaced with the bronze head of a lion.

It was...alarming. Foreboding.

A shift from the corner of his eye, and he looked up, and he could have sworn that he saw the curtain on one of the second story windows flutter.

Maybe he shouldn't have come here. The wind that blew was suddenly chilly, despite the glaring noon sun.

And then the door to that great house creaked open, just a crack.

Someone watched him from within. Oh, damn. Too late now to turn back.

Straightening his shoulders and furrowing his brow, he darted across the street and came up to the gate, and when he pushed it open, the door had widened a little more. Someone stirred within the shadows, but he could not make them out.

By the time he put his foot on the first step, his heart was racing so terribly that he was afraid whoever stood there would be able to hear it.

He took another step, and when finally he stood before the door, it swung open.

A man stood in the frame.

But it was not the Russian.

A shorter man, dressed neatly and shoulder-length brunette hair combed perfectly, he stared at Ludwig with narrowed indigo eyes of scrutiny, tense and wary and maybe a little alarmed, and Ludwig found himself completely frozen under his gaze, not knowing what to say.

What could he possibly say?

'Sorry to bother you, but is there a really big Russian guy here that I can talk to?'

Less than formal.

He opened his mouth, and lost his voice.

The man stood there in the frame, watching him with a look of suspicion, and Ludwig shifted his weight awkwardly.

Maybe this was a mistake.

"Can I help you?" the man finally asked, tersely, one hand gripping the doorframe and the other creeping up under his coat, and Ludwig wondered if there was a _gun _underneath that coat, just waiting to be pulled out if he said the wrong thing or made a false step—

"Ah," he began, anxiously, and tried to articulate himself, "I was wondering... That is, I... Ah..."

The man's eyes were ever narrowing.

A movement.

Fearing for his safety, he reached slowly and as non-threateningly as possible into his breast pocket, and pulled out the note that had been thrust so haphazardly into his mailbox, and held it out.

The man took it gently, and read it, eyes darting up every so often to make sure that Ludwig was not attempting anything shifty, and when he had finished, there was a silence.

Ludwig shifted again, nervously.

And then the man scoffed and shook his head in what could have been exasperation, and he held out a hand in greeting. His dark eyes lightened in relief and he looked considerably less threatening now, as he began to smile, and when Ludwig took the offered hand, he said, voice light, "So, you're the German I've been hearing so much about. Well, I should have known, I guess. Please, come in."

He held out the note, and Ludwig took it, replacing it in his pocket.

The door was held open, and after a second of tentative hesitation, he took a deep breath and plunged through the threshold. Stepping into the house was terrifying somehow. Not knowing what lay in wait, or what to expect.

If it were at all possible, the inside of the house was even more unnerving than the outside. The drawn curtains prevented all sunlight from entering, and the lights that hung overhead were dim and golden, casting strange shadows over the furniture and leaving the corners of the rooms bathed in darkness.

Someone could have been standing there watching him, and he would never have known.

"Follow me," the man said, casually, and Ludwig had no choice but to walk along quickly behind him as he led him to God only knew where.

He passed through something that could have been a foyer. An empty desk sat in the corner, and upon it a great, dusty globe. A massive bookshelf took up one entire wall, reaching up to the ceiling, and full to the brim with musty books in many different languages. A velvet case, full of medals, likely from the war, sat guarded beneath a glass case on the wall. Everything was dusty, and he wondered, as he looked up and saw cobwebs in the corners, if anyone here had ever even _seen _a cloth, let alone picked one up with intent to use it.

A staircase loomed before them, and the man scaled it with swift, silent steps, and he followed behind, boots clunking loudly and heavily on the wood.

Strange, pretty paintings hung all over the wall, some of them tilted unevenly, mostly portraits of people from times long since past, and he squirmed uncomfortably as their eyes seemed to follow him as he reached the top of the staircase.

The man tried to make small talk.

"I should have known it was you, I guess, but to be honest, I wasn't really expecting to ever see you here. You look a little different that I thought you would. Definitely a lot younger... Well, maybe I should have known that, too. Do you like the paintings? We had them shipped here all the way from St. Petersburg!"

He could only say, politely, "Oh. Yes, they're very...nice."

The hallway twisted, and then there was a door.

The man stopped before it, and turned back to him.

"Well, here you go. He's in there. Just knock first."

He turned on his heel, tucking his hands into his coat and walking off as though everything were completely normal, and Ludwig watched him go uneasily.

As he was about to round the corner, he called back, lowly, "I'm Toris, by the way. Nice to meet you."

Then he was gone.

Ludwig turned back to the door, and stared at it in defeat. It would have been better just to turn back before it was too late. The Russian sat in wait on the other side of this door, and the thought of being alone in the same room with him was, for lack of another word, terrifying.

He should just turn back. He could just go back home...

_Bang._

He shuddered.

Christ, how could he go back? This damn Russian was the last chance he had to keep Gilbert in his stupid, dead Prussia, the last chance to stave off something terrible and keep the only family he had intact.

He couldn't turn back. There was no one else to go to.

Bracing his feet and reminding himself that this was for Gilbert, he brought his fist up, and knocked, gently.

There was only silence.

He waited.

Ignoring the cold sweat on his brow, he knocked again.

No answer.

Gathering his nerve, he reached down and took the doorknob in his hand, and with a burst of adrenaline, he turned it and pushed the door gently open. Poking his head through, he called, softly, "Hello?"

Everything was quiet, and he looked around the edge of the door into the room.

He could hear the faint scratching of a pen on paper.

Daring himself to step in further, he could see that the room was something like an office. It was lit far better than the rooms downstairs, and the chandelier above burned bright and white. The walls were a pale silvery-gold, and the carpet matched it perfectly. Maps and more paintings on the walls, and another globe sat up on top of a dresser. Looking over towards the left, he could see a polished mahogany desk, and felt a great lurch of fear.

The Russian sat there, absorbed in paperwork, and he didn't even see Ludwig standing there off to the side. Leaning forward, elbows resting on the desk, he was scribbling away, pale hair smooth and gleaming in the bright light. His collar was buttoned all the way up to his chin, eyes focused and hand steady, shoulders tensed and brow low, and he didn't look up.

Even hunched over a desk, he was still overwhelming and intimidating.

He didn't seem to notice Ludwig standing there.

"Good afternoon..."

The pen continued to scratch away.

Ludwig realized that he was just being too quiet, and took another step inside, shutting the door carefully behind him.

Clearing his throat, he took another bold step and said, as loudly as he dared, "Good afternoon!"

This time he was heard, and the Russian's head wrenched over, lavender eyes suddenly on fire, his hand flying down automatically to the waistline of his long overcoat, as though reaching for a gun, and Ludwig froze up in fright.

Oh, shit, what had he gotten himself into?

He threw his hands up before himself to indicate that he was no danger, and then a bolt of recognition must have hit the Russian, for his hand froze where it was, and his eyes calmed. Ludwig stood stark still, and did not dare move until the Russian relaxed and his hand was back up on the desk again, and then he smiled.

"You startled me a bit," he suddenly said, in that smooth, soft voice that was both comforting and somehow unnerving, and Ludwig only managed to shuffle his feet, trying to appear casual as he took another step.

"I'm sorry," he began, politely, "I should have knocked louder."

The Russian waved a hand in the air, and said, dismissively, "Ah, don't worry about it. Wouldn't've done you any good." When he extended a hand towards the chair in front of the desk, Ludwig walked towards it and pulled it out and sat down, nervously. The Russian smiled at him, observing him with obvious interest and maybe something like satisfaction, and then he raised his pen, pointing at his right ear. "Sorry, I don't hear so well from this side. German grenade went up right next to me down in Kursk."

Ludwig shifted in his seat, awkwardly.

A silence, and he clasped his hands together in his lap as they stared at each other. The Russian seemed perfectly content to stare, resting his chin up in his palm and smiling easily, making no effort to elaborate conversation. Ludwig could barely meet his eyes, as years of Gilbert's warnings rang in his ears.

He should not have been sitting here. Not with this Russian, who watched him so intensely.

Stupid Gilbert. He had forced him into this position.

"So," the Russian began, and had suddenly placed his palm in the middle of the desk, as though hoping that Ludwig would do the same, "I never caught your name."

Ludwig narrowed his eyes a bit, and said, anxiously, "Tell me your name and I'll tell you mine."

The Russian's smile widened.

But he didn't offer his name, and leaned forward all the more, eagerly.

"Well... I'll just call you German, then! So, German, what brings you out here?"

His eyes raked Ludwig up and down, observant and alert, and then he saw the piece of paper sticking out from the top of Ludwig's pocket, and his eyes lit up.

"I see! I'm so glad you kept it!" he gushed, cheerily. "I was so worried that you would just throw it away. But you're always so polite, I should have known you wouldn't do that."

Ludwig's brow came down, and he shifted again. As if this Russian knew anything about him.

"Well, something must have happened then, to bring you here. What can I do for you?"

For a moment, Ludwig only sat there, as the Russian smiled at him and still placed his large hand in the middle of the desk, and he could not find the words. His pride was battling with his common sense.

He hated begging for help from a stranger. What else could he do? This wasn't how things were supposed to turn out. It shouldn't have happened like this.

But it _had_, and there was no changing it, and he could sacrifice a little pride and a little safety if it would make Gilbert happy.

"The thing is," he finally began, and the Russian leaned forward, eyes sharpening into focus as he hung upon his every word, and suddenly he discovered that he was telling the Russian _everything_.

The endless papers, the calls to foreign diplomats, the sentimental value of the house, Gilbert's slipping further and further into depression, his own crushing stress and hopelessness, the unwillingness of Gilbert to leave behind Prussia, the fact that there was no one else to call, the horrible things that Gilbert said when he was drunk, the way he sat there with the gun, the threats the officer had made, the looming possibly of a final eviction, the helplessness of being powerless, the promises Gilbert had made, and Ludwig's own fear that he really would act upon them...

He told the Russian everything.

And the Russian only sat there silently, one large finger tapping the desk as he listened, and Ludwig got everything off of his chest, and when he finally summed up his tirade with a lame, hopeful, "So, if there's anything you can do to help, anything at all, I'd be so grateful," he felt like a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

It felt good to talk to _someone_.

Anyone.

Even this Russian.

Breathless and somewhat nauseous, he fell back into his chair, and waited for the Russian to speak.

There was a silence.

The Russian watched him with cool eyes, lidded thoughtfully, and his finger continued to tap the desk.

Ludwig waited.

Then the Russian smiled again, and placed both of his palms upon the polished mahogany. When he spoke, his voice was high and eager, and he leaned forward, chirping, "Sure! I'll help out! No problem!"

Ludwig heaved a great sigh of relief, and thank _God _that he had found a fourth save, even if maybe it wasn't a very tactical or a very safe one, but it was better than nothing at all, and even if the Russian was supposed to be his enemy, he was still offering help.

Finally, he found his voice, feeling a stirring of hope within him for the first time in a year, and said, "Thank you!" but the relief in his chest was dampened when the Russian, still leaning forward, broke into a great, sunny smile, and clasped his hands together. His eyes were churning with excitement.

Ludwig's excitement faded into nervousness.

"I'll help out, sure I will!" he continued, and his voice was light with a sudden coyness, "But, man, what a bunch of calls I need to make! Lots of favors, you know! But I'll do it, for you. Because you asked me to. It won't be so hard, but it takes a lot of effort. For you, though, it's not such an inconvenience. Ah... I would require a bit of payment from you. Of course..."

Ah. A splash of ice in his chest.

He didn't have any money. They were barely scraping by as it was.

He would have to find it.

"I'll get you whatever you want," was his response, and even though he probably wouldn't be able to gather enough money—probably not _nearly _enough to cover what this Russian would ask for—he would do his best, even if he had to work years to get it.

Could he put a price on Gilbert's life? He couldn't bear the thought of losing him just because of a lack of funds.

"How much?" he asked, stiffly, and the Russian fell back into his seat, throwing a hand casually in the air.

"Oh. Not a lot. Since it's you, I'll give you a deal. I like you. I think we can work something out." He reached up, placing his chin in his palm, as he eyed Ludwig with that unnerving intensity. His smiled widened, and he said, energetically, "Let's see, let's see. Oh, man! I'll have to use everything I've got to get around the government. How much for all these favors? Hmm..."

Ludwig shifted restlessly in his seat, brow lowering as the Russian shuttered about this way and that, as though struggling to contain himself, and then he finally gasped, "Ah! I know!"

Ludwig's heart raced.

"I'll help you out," the Russian began, drumming his fingers on the desk as he smiled over, and now there was a light in his eyes that Ludwig did not particularly care for, as though he knew he had the upper hand, and then he continued, "and in return, all I ask for is one little thing... Just a favor."

"What?" he asked, suspiciously.

The Russian clapped his hands together.

"Such a small thing! It won't be a problem!"

"...what?"

"Just one little thing..."

"_What_?"

Sensing that Ludwig's patience was waning, the Russian leaned forward again, and now his smile showed his teeth as he crooned, smoothly, "Oh, let's call it... A date?"

Silence.

Silence.

Silence...

..._oh_. Damn. What had he gotten himself into?

Too numb to move, he only sat there, as the Russian shifted over and over again restlessly, and the air was suddenly tense. The Russian seemed eager, and maybe a little anxious, as he awaited a response, and when Ludwig sat still, he spoke again, and now his voice was a bit lower and somewhat nervous, "Well? See? It's nothing much! Just a date. That's all!"

All? That was _all_?

Ludwig's shoulders slumped and his arms dropped down loosely at his sides, and it took every ounce of self-control he had to keep himself from dropping his head in defeat.

A date? What if it was something more sinister?

What did he know about this Russian? Not a thing. Not even his name.

And yet he was being asked on a _date _by this man, like they were high-schoolers, and who knew where it would lead to or to _what_, but...

He didn't have anyone else. There was no one else that could help them. And if this was the price...

Stupid, stupid, stupid Gilbert.

Twisting his hands, he looked around, helplessly, and when he realized that there was no way out, he heaved a sigh, and met the Russian's gaze. Narrowing his eyes, he tried to keep himself strong and sure as he asked, sternly, "A date? Just a date?"

The Russian fell back, and seemed almost relieved as he confirmed, "Just a date!"

He was not convinced.

"Where? When? I can't say I feel comfortable with this."

But the Russian's confidence was back, and his smile was unshakeable.

"Don't worry! I promise; just a date. Nothing more. Let's say...tomorrow night? I won't say where, that would ruin it! But don't worry so much! It will be fun, yeah?"

Fun?

Reaching up, he ran a hand through his hair, anxiously, and the Russian pulled himself to his feet before him and extended a hand, almost expectantly.

"Well? What do you say? Do we have a deal? It's such a small price to pay for all that, don't you think?"

Well...

It was for Gilbert. He would just have to swallow his pride and go along with it.

What was the worst that could happen?

"Alright," he finally grumbled, and reached up, taking the extended hand in a firm grip. The Russian's shoulders loosened in relief, and he shook Ludwig's hand with fervor.

"That's great! See, everything will work out just fine! Don't worry, everything will be fine! I'll make sure everything stays as it is."

Who knew what kind of tactics this Russian would employ to make sure that he got his way. What laws he would break. What acts he would commit.

He shouldn't worry about it too much. It didn't matter _how _he did it, as long as he did.

Nodding his head, Ludwig withdrew his hand and pulled himself to his feet, and the Russian led him over to the door, arms crossed behind his back formally.

Business as usual, perhaps.

"Go home, and don't worry about it. I'll take care of everything. Come here again, tomorrow, once the sun sets. I'll be waiting."

Without thinking and feeling nervous and agitated, Ludwig grumbled back, "What? You're not even going to come pick me up?"

As the Russian pulled open the door, he froze still under Ludwig's rough words, and Ludwig could only tense up anxiously, because he hadn't meant to say _that_, especially to someone so intimidating and possibly dangerous and obviously a little...well, _unstable_, for lack of a better word, but there it was.

But the Russian only reached up and scratched almost awkwardly at his collar, a certain nervousness upon his face as though he had done something wrong, and finally he said, tentatively, "Oh! You're right! I apologize, that was rude of me. Of course, I'll—"

"I was just kidding," Ludwig interrupted, even though he had not been, but he did _not_ want the Russian to come for him anyhow, because that would give away the game to Gilbert, and would result in an unfavorable confrontation. One that Gilbert would not necessarily come out on top of.

Ugh, he felt like he was back in school.

A date. How ridiculous.

After a second of silence, the Russian's smile returned, and his voice was cheery again.

"Ah! Ha, that was funny. Well, I'll see you tomorrow, then!"

Crisis averted, Ludwig could only nod his head, and when he walked through the doorframe and back into the hall, it was with a churning stomach and heavy heart.

He hated it when he did not know what to expect.

As he departed, a call from behind suddenly caught his attention.

"Hey."

He looked over his shoulder, and the Russian was looming in the doorframe, pale hair glowing white from the light from behind, eyes dark and thoughtful, tall and ominous and certainly frightful, and when he spoke, his voice was low and serious and sure.

"Hey, don't worry about that meeting. I'm sure it won't even take place at all..."

A promise.

Some part of him wanted to shudder at the silent indication of something sinister, and yet he nodded his head nonetheless, because that sinister danger was on _his _side, and if something happened, then it was nothing that someone had not had coming for a long time.

"Thanks," he said, and the darkness in the Russian's eyes mingled with a certain fondness.

"My name is Ivan, by the way."

Ivan.

Well, that was something.

"I'm Ludwig," he responded, politely, and then turned his back, resuming his walk.

"Ludwig. Don't forget! Tomorrow! I'll be waiting. Please dress nicely! We'll have a good time."

...how embarrassing.

Oh. Damn.

_Damn_.

_What _had he gotten himself _into_?


	3. Hochet, Ne Hochet

**Chapter 3**

**Hochet, Ne Hochet**

Gilbert was _laughing_.

_Really _laughing.

A sound Ludwig had not heard in a long time. It was enough to cut through that despondent daze he had been in all day.

After his impromptu journey to the house at the end of the street, his mind had been so full of thoughts that he hadn't even realized it when he had come back home, and sat down mindlessly in the living room, staring blankly ahead at the wall as Gilbert slept off the alcohol in the kitchen.

He felt sick.

Even though he had bought them valuable time, he could not help but worry about at what cost.

Christ. What had he gotten himself into?

He sat there on the sofa, pulling his knees up to his chest and burying his face in his folded arms, and every so often he would heave a heavy, begrudging moan, cursing his own stupidity and Gilbert's stubbornness, and dreading tomorrow like he had never dreaded _anything_.

He had not noticed that the afternoon had faded into evening until Gilbert had finally came out of his stupor and rolled out of his chair and down onto the tile with a dull thud, and Ludwig, in a mechanical haze, had risen to his feet and came into the kitchen, pulling his stupified brother upright, as Gilbert held his head and groaned in agony.

He was used to doing this. He had done it many times.

_Many _times.

As he had hauled Gilbert up, he remembered feeling something like dread, as though Gilbert would somehow come back into consciousness and look at him and just be able to _know_, somehow, what he had done. Maybe Gilbert would be able to smell that dark, musty, spicy scent of the house on his clothes.

Gilbert had only looked up at him, in a bleary, alarmed daze, and asked, roughly, "Is it time?"

Time to go, and Gilbert had started awake thinking that the officer's promise had come true and that Ludwig was dragging him up just to escort him outside.

When Ludwig looked up at the window, he realized it was almost sunset, and he tried not to worry about it, having faith, however misplaced it may have been, in the Russian's word.

"No, Gilbert," he had assured, gently, "Look, it's getting late. Nothing's happened. It's okay. Everything's okay. Here, why don't we go walking? It'll make you feel better."

Gilbert had not necessarily agreed, but Ludwig had dragged him to the door nonetheless, because fresh air would be good for both them, to clear up Gilbert's hangover and also to calm his nerves.

The sun was low on the horizon. The sky was orange.

And as he held Gilbert's arm for support and walked through the streets, the cool air refreshing and sweet, he could not help but think that this time tomorrow, he would be setting out to go on a date.

His first.

He felt _sick_.

They walked through the streets, Gilbert's heavy feet unsteady and clumsy, and he wasn't really much better, keeping his eyes firmly on the ground as he struggled with his thoughts.

Gilbert was too out in space to notice his frazzled state.

The Russian would be waiting tomorrow.

...what would happen if he didn't show up?

He could only imagine.

The Russian's dark eyes, as he had suggested so ominously that there would be no meeting...

Nothing pleasant. Probably another note in his mailbox, but this one would not be friendly, and there would probably be blood on it, just to remind him that he had made a _deal_.

He was in over his head, maybe. Maybe this would not end well.

For either of them.

Lost in darkness, he barely felt Gilbert's arm within his hand, walking alongside him mindlessly, and after minutes of complete silence, something broke through the fog.

And suddenly, he could _hear _it.

Gilbert was laughing.

Looking up from the pavement, dumbly, he turned his eyes to Gilbert, and _God_, to see him standing there, a breathless smile on his face as he placed his hand on his hip and laughed, was more than Ludwig had ever hoped for.

For a moment, he was so amazed and his heart was soaring so high that he did not even care about what had made Gilbert laugh.

It didn't matter. He had not heard that sound for so long...

"Oh God," Gilbert suddenly barked, laughing so hard that he was clinging now to Ludwig just to keep upright on his wobbly legs, "L-look at that!"

He did look, finally, feeling somewhat breathless himself, and what he saw across the street did not garner from him the same reaction that it had from Gilbert.

The officer.

On the other side of the street, going in the opposite direction, he had seen them too, and now they stood still, staring at each other from across the way.

Ludwig saw it immediately, his appearance, but it did not make him dissolve into giggles as it had Gilbert.

A stir of unease.

The officer stood there, hatless, shoulders low and chest heaving with the effort of breathing, and even though it was almost dark out, Ludwig could see the black eye and the bruises on his neck and the cuts on his forehead and the blood on the front of his disheveled, torn uniform, and when he took a step forward, he limped terribly and clutched his chest as though something had broken within, and, for the first time since he had been here, he looked _scared_.

He looked scared.

His hair was matted with blood. His body was shaking, standing nearly too much for him.

"Look at that," Gilbert scoffed quite merrily, hands clutching Ludwig's shirt and looking more like himself than he had in months, "Will you look at that! Somebody messed him _up_!"

Frozen in place, Ludwig could only stand there, silently, as the battered officer met his eye, and then with a start looked away so quickly and so pointedly that he nearly tripped over his own feet as he made to retreat, and Gilbert laughed again, coarsely, as the officer staggered unsteadily down the street in what could have been absolute terror.

Ludwig did not laugh, and he could suddenly see it in his mind, as though it had happened right before him :

He had left that house at the end of the street, and the second he had gone the Russian had left, too, but he had gone across town to wherever this troublesome officer worked, and he had set his sights upon him and lured him outside, one way or another, and when no one was looking the Russian had reached out and entangled his fingers in the officer's collar and had dragged him into an alleyway, thrusting him against the wall after a punch or two to diffuse him, and then the interrogation and threats would start, and Ludwig could _hear _the Russian's smooth, soft voice in his head.

'If you go near that house again, it'll be the last thing you do, _comrade_.'

And the officer had probably been defiant at first, and tossed mindless insults, which were quickly beaten out of him by the Russian's large hands, and then, as people passed quickly by, ignoring the muffled screams coming from that dark alley, the Russian probably pulled out a gun and pressed it hard enough into the officer's stomach to leave a bruise, and finally he caved in and swore that he would _never _bother the Germans again, and the Russian dropped him down and let him burst into tears on the dirty ground, straightening his coat neatly and smoothing his hair and walking away as though nothing had ever happened, and now the officer had finally found the courage to walk on, and was on his way home to kiss his wife and thank God that he was still alive...

Ludwig shuddered.

And the meeting had never taken place.

"Someone finally gave him what he deserves," Gilbert wheezed, as his laughter died down into careless giggles, and Ludwig shifted restlessly at his side.

"Yeah," he finally managed, lowly, "I guess someone did."

Well. Served him right, after all. He had brought it upon himself.

Gilbert was cheery for the rest of the night, and Ludwig could only try to smile and push away that anxiety, because if Gilbert ever found out what he had done, if Gilbert ever realized that it had been that intimidating Russian that had brought him such a moment of joy, he would have _killed _him.

Killed him.

Gilbert slept easily that night, but he did not, his conscience accusing him of things that were not necessarily untrue.

_He_ had brought such punishment down upon the officer. Hadn't he been the one who had asked the Russian for help? The Russian had only done what he had wanted, in his own way.

These were not the principles and morals and ethics that _he _strove to live by, but not all men played by the rules, and if this was how it had to happen, then so be it.

It wasn't like the officer had _died_.

...yet.

He pushed the thoughts away, and tried to sleep.

He would need all he could get.

The night passed far too quickly.

* * *

><p>Goddammit.<p>

This was going to be a problem.

Goddamn Gilbert just wouldn't pass _out_.

Under normal circumstances, Ludwig would have looked down at Gilbert drinking so heavily and would have felt nothing but hopelessness and disappointment. Now he only felt annoyance, because it was getting late, and Gilbert just kept putting the shots back.

He just wouldn't pass out.

Ludwig sat there, holding that same glass in his hand that he had had an hour and a half ago, as Gilbert chattered away to him drunkenly, most of his words completely incoherent, and Ludwig's patience was waning.

He looked up at the clock, and then glanced at the window.

The sun was low. Very low.

He had an appointment with danger. He did not want to be tardy.

Now his foot was tapping anxiously, and he bowed his head, staring down at the liquid in the glass as Gilbert babbled away, bleary-eyed and slurring and swaying but very much conscious.

He grew agitated. How much longer before Gilbert fell?

Alright, maybe it was _his _fault, for not having a better plan, but what else could he do?

He needed to leave. Gilbert would want to know where.

And if he had said, simply, 'Out', then Gilbert would have been far too suspicious to let him leave, especially if he were dressed more neatly than usual, and before he could escape Gilbert would grab him by the wrist and force him down into a chair, not above violence if need be, and the hours would pass and the Russian would wait in vain, and something _horrible _would happen.

The only solution that he could think of was just to take the bottle down from the shelf and put it on the table at dinnertime and pour himself a glass, pretending that he had every intention of drinking it. It was like putting food in front of a dog and expecting him not to eat it, because Gilbert would never refuse a drink, especially if Ludwig were drinking too, and he had been so enthusiastic that he had taken the bottle and did not seem to notice that Ludwig's glass was sitting there untouched the entire time.

He would let Gilbert drink himself to sleep, and then he could sneak out and keep up his end of the bargain, because the Russian had obviously held up his.

Time passed, and Gilbert had consumed almost the entire bottle. So how the _fuck _was he still awake?

It was like everything was conspiring against him. He always found himself in terrible situations...

He was unlucky by nature, perhaps.

Reaching up, he tugged irritably at his collar as Gilbert downed yet another shot, and this time, when he slammed the glass back down, he sent Ludwig a dazed look and cried, heavily, "You know, Ludwig, I kinda feel better! Today, that is. I kinda felt better. Isn't that—isn't that..."

He trailed off, and laughed, and then his head hit the table with a thunk.

Ludwig watched him for a moment, to make sure that he did not move, and when everything was silent, he heaved a great sigh of relief and pulled himself to his feet.

Took long enough. It was late.

As he trudged towards his bedroom, the anxiety that he had been suppressing was suddenly rushing to the surface, and he stopped short at the door, holding the handle in his hand and wondering if there was _any _way he could get out of this.

Why had he agreed to this?

Oh, God, he was so nervous.

_Why _had he agreed to this? Dumb Gilbert. That was right...

Gilbert, who had laughed and had said, in his drunkenness, that he even felt a little better.

Better. Gilbert hadn't felt better in years. That alone was worth this terrible task ahead of him.

The Russian had done his part. Now he had to do his.

Bracing his shoulders and reassuring himself that this would be well worth it, he plunged into his room and went to the closet, searching for clothes that were halfway decent. He had hardly any, only one nice shirt and a grey suit. Was a suit _too _formal? He knew nothing about these things.

_Please dress nicely!_

Groaning, he buried his face in his hands in a moment of total mortification, and he could have just keeled over dead right then and there from the shame.

Fuck it.

Grabbing the suit and feeling absolutely ridiculous, he pulled it on and smoothed his hair, and tried to stifle the churning in his stomach.

He was going to be sick.

Staring at his pale, clammy reflection in the mirror, he reached out and grabbed the end of the dresser and leaned forward, taking deep breaths to calm his nausea.

"Come on," he grunted to himself, pinching the bridge of his nose, "Come on..."

He looked at the window.

The sun was gone. The moon was on high.

He was late.

Shuddering, he forced himself up straight and retreated from the room, and as he walked to the door, the clamminess was almost unbearable. He passed silently by the sleeping Gilbert, taking great care not to wake him, and when he reached the front door, he paused.

Well.

As an afterthought, he retreated into the kitchen and took up that abandoned glass, putting it back with a wince.

God knew he would need it.

Brushing down his shoulders, and grabbing his coat, he stepped out into the cold night air, and the closing of the door behind him sounded ominous.

He was in over his head.

Groaning yet again to himself, he reached up and massaged his temple with his fingers in a vain attempt to soothe his nerves as he walked down the street. He rarely came out at night, not since Königsberg had turned into Kaliningrad, and the glow of the streetlamps was almost eerie on the quiet streets.

The moon was full, beaming out from behind white clouds.

With every step, he struggled with the urge to turn on his heel and flee, and only the reminder that he was _obligated _to this date, for Gilbert's sake, kept him from doing so.

He could do this.

Minutes of his footsteps heavy on the sidewalk, and then the great house was looming in the distance.

He darted across the street and approached, as silently as possible, forcing himself to slow so that his footsteps made no sound. He didn't know why.

The gate was visible. He could hear the whirring engine of a car. Exhaust rising up in the chilly night air.

He came around the edge of the hedges, and suddenly stopped short.

There they were.

He could see them, standing there beside the car, and they were speaking lowly to each other, bathed in the soft light of the moon. The smaller one—what was his name? Toris?—was leaning against the side of the shining black car, arms crossed above his chest, and he was smiling, and it was obvious that whatever he was saying was meant to calm the Russian—Ivan—down.

Ivan, who stood there, one hand supporting his elbow as he rested his chin in his palm, and he was shifting his weight back and forth, and the expression on his face appeared to be a mixture of apprehension and worry as he glanced at his watch every so often.

He could not understand what they were saying, but Toris' voice was calm and soothing, and he reached out, patting Ivan's upper arm reassuringly.

Ivan suddenly dropped his head, and his voice was low and dark as he muttered something, no doubt in Russian, eyes burning holes into the ground.

Ludwig broke free of his immobility, and took a step forward.

Toris suddenly became rigid in alertness, turning his head almost indistinguishably, and when he looked over, he caught Ludwig's eye so fast that it was almost mechanical. A silence, and then Toris inclined his head politely, smile retuning.

Ivan looked over too.

Well, they'd seen him now. Too late to back out, and he reached out with a trembling hand, and pushed open the gate, forcing himself to walk through despite the common sense that said not to.

Ivan broke into a smile.

He felt ill.

Could he get out of this if he were sick? Because he was certain, as Ivan was suddenly striding towards him with a relieved look, that he could make himself vomit if he really thought about it hard enough.

He shut the gate behind him, and fell still.

Ivan stopped before him, clasping his hands behind his back, and lowered his shoulders.

"I thought you weren't coming."

He almost hadn't.

Tucking his hands in his coat so that the Russian would not see them shaking, Ludwig shrugged a shoulder, trying to appear nonchalant as he finally managed, weakly, "Sorry. I had to put the guard dog to sleep."

Ivan shifted his weight, and said, simply, "Ah."

Ludwig raised his eyes, and observed him.

Well-groomed, as always, dressed in a military uniform that appeared to be high-ranking, and very glossy, not a wrinkle visible in anything beneath his long coat, he was dressed to impress, even down to his boots. Not a detail out of place, and he could see, underneath the unbuttoned coat, the shining of medals upon his breast.

Blearily, he found himself thinking that Ivan must have been a firm believer in the 'dates just love a man in uniform!' crowd. Certainly a handsome, if not overwhelming, specimen.

...oh, he felt _sick_.

Ivan took another step forward, and extended a welcoming hand.

"Come on, I want us to get there early."

He could only imagine where 'there' was, and he looked down at Ivan's hand, held out in the air.

Large and rough, scarred here and there, and he could see, for the light of the moon, that his knuckles were scraped and raw, as though he had been in a particularly violent scuffle.

He remembered the terrible state of the officer, and suddenly it was _real_. Seeing Ivan's hand, bruised and no doubt sore, made it real.

Ivan really _had _dragged the officer off somewhere and nearly the beat the life out of him, because _he _had given the order (in not so many words) to do so. Ivan had skirted the law with violence, stomped out official orders with fearlessness, stopped in its tracks the government with unspeakable threats and promises.

All in exchange for a date.

He nearly shuddered.

Ivan was _dangerous_, but...

"Come on," Ivan repeated, and this time he reached down and took Ludwig's hand, obviously having grown impatient of waiting for him to react, and was suddenly tugging him to the car.

But it was alright, because Ivan was on his side. He didn't need to be afraid of Ivan.

...right?

Right.

They stepped towards the car, and then suddenly Ivan's large hand was warm on his back as he leaned down, so close that Ludwig could feel his breath move his hair, and smiled as he reached out with his other hand to open the door.

That hand, so unforgiving to the officer, was gentle upon _him_.

Ivan's pale eyes were vivid in the moonlight.

Calm and collected.

A soft inquiry.

"Have you ever been to a ballet, Ludwig?"


	4. Lyubit, Ne Lyubit

**A/N **: A very tiny history tweaking : the Kaliningrad Theatre was built in 1947, not '46. There. I said it. I changed it back by a year. Now go outside; the sky is red. You're welcome.

**Long chapter like whoa**.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 4<strong>

**Lyubit, Ne Lyubit**

Well.

Was 'awkward' even a strong enough word?

No; there wasn't a word in _any _language that could _possibly _describe how unsettling and unnerving and mercilessly _uncomfortable _it was to be seated in the back of this well-kept vehicle, leaning as far into the door as possible so that he would not accidentally brush up against the man next to him.

Ludwig was already squirming, and they hadn't even pulled out of the drive yet.

His discomfort was intensified by the fact that they were not alone.

Shouldn't Ivan have been driving, while he sat up in the front seat? That was a normal date, right? So why in God's name was Toris driving, while he was forced into this enclosed little backseat with Ivan?

So awkward!

Even though Ivan, nestled over and bundled up inside of his coat, hands folded in his lap and staring ahead in obvious contentment, seemed oblivious to his thoughts, Toris was not.

Feeling, perhaps, that he was being eyed none too amicably, Toris looked up, and caught his gaze in the rearview mirror, and Ludwig glanced towards the house, trying to silently say, 'Well? Aren't you leaving now?'

Toris understood, and suddenly gave a short laugh as he began to back out onto the street.

"Oh!" he cried, quite merrily, as he shifted gears with swift hands, "Don't mind me! Just pretend I'm not here."

Ludwig narrowed his eyes in mild annoyance (what kind of date was _this_? Talk about a third wheel), but, as it turned out, Toris was actually pretty easy to ignore, staying completely silent as he drove.

Actually...

_Everyone _was silent.

It was exceedingly uncomfortable, as Ivan looked over at him from the corner of his eye every so often, shifting his weight this way and that, and Ludwig could only keep his gaze firmly on the window, reaching up every now and again to tug irritably at his collar.

The road passed quietly. The moon rose higher. Ivan cleared his throat on occasion. Toris stole a glance in the mirror every few minutes.

Ludwig wanted to open the door and tuck and roll.

He couldn't remember fumbling through such an awkward situation since he had been in school.

The lights of the quiet streets began to brighten as the communities turned into the great buildings of the central city, and he _hated _that when he looked out and saw those glowing shops, all of the signs were in Russian.

They used to be in German.

The street names were in Russian now, too. Even the stop signs.

It didn't seem fair. No wonder Gilbert just couldn't bring himself to come out into the city anymore. It wasn't the same.

Ha.

It _wasn't _the same.

Kaliningrad.

Unable to keep his eyes from lingering longingly upon a little shop that had once been a German butcher's, he could not keep back his melancholy, and maybe Ivan sensed it, and tried to distract him by making small talk.

"Have you seen the theatre?" came the soft, cool whisper above the silence, the first words Ivan had spoken to him on this ride.

He shook his head, keeping his eyes on the passing buildings.

"Well," Ivan continued, keeping his voice very soft in what might have been an attempt to cover up some kind of anxiety, "You'll like it. It's brand new, you know! They just built it. It's...pretty. You'll like it."

"I'm sure," was his polite reply, although the prettiness of the new Soviet theatre was not quite the first thing on his mind.

Had Gilbert woken up?

Oh, God, he hoped not. If Gilbert woke up before he got back home, he'd just sit up and wait for him and be _so _angry—

He shuddered, and could only hope that everything went according to plan.

Christ, the things he was _doing _to stay in this godforsaken city. The Soviets could have it.

Why did Gilbert cling to it so desperately? He couldn't even read the street names anymore.

"I hope you'll like the ballet," Ivan said, and now he couldn't quite keep that note of apprehension from his voice. "I wasn't really sure... Well, that it, I've never really... Ah..."

Searching for words, and apparently finding none, Ivan fell still, and Ludwig tried to stir himself from his stupor, because Ivan had done all that he had said he would, and so he could at least _pretend_.

"I've never been to one," he said, "But I'm sure that it will be nice."

What else could he say?

He had no interest in ballets, not truthfully, but if that was where Ivan wanted to go...

Then that was where he was going too, and he would hate to end up on the wrong end of those rough fists. The thought alone was horrifying, to say the least. The underlying danger was always there, even if it was difficult to see under Ivan's cool smile and soft voice.

"Well, at least you can say you've been to one, even if...you don't like it."

A shifting in anxiety, and Ivan fell silent, perhaps running out of words to say, and he began to tap his fingers absently on the windowsill as Ludwig twisted his hands in his lap.

It occurred to Ludwig that Ivan might have been just as nervous as he was, although no doubt for different reasons.

He pushed the thought away.

What did _Ivan _have to be nervous about? He was in control here. He had all the right cards. He had the final word.

Because Ludwig owed him.

This night could not end soon enough.

A sudden light off to the side caught his attention, and when he glanced over, he could see the tall theatre rising above the other buildings, gleaming white against the dark.

The anxiety intensified.

Ivan seemed excited enough, and Toris looked shamefully unconcerned, maybe even _pleased_. Like _he _was on a date, rather than just chaperoning one. Living vicariously, no doubt.

Mortified, Ludwig reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose as the vehicle pulled into the parking lot, already full nearly to the brim with glossy cars, and he suddenly wished the exceedingly awkward ride had lasted just a little longer.

The ignition cut.

Toris sat there, fingers tapping the steering wheel quite merrily as he waited for Ivan to move.

Ludwig waited silently, and then Ivan took a great breath, as though to steady himself, and finally opened the door. In a flash, Toris leapt from the car like a jungle cat, moving so fast that Ludwig was almost awed that someone so lithe and inconspicuous had such impressive reflexes.

Ludwig sat still, reluctant to move, scratching compulsively at his collar. The anxiety mounted into dread. A cold sweat broke out upon his brow.

Ivan stepped out, Toris hovering off to the side with watchful eyes.

Ludwig sat still.

Hoping in vain to delay the inevitable.

Toris tucked his hands into his pockets and began to smile in what very well could have been glee (the sadistic little son of a bitch, Ludwig thought bitterly) when Ivan, apparently impatient by nature, came around the car to his side and pulled the door gently open.

"I apologize!" he said, perhaps nervously, "I guess I don't have all of these etiquette rules down yet."

A wavering laugh, and Ludwig felt a flush of horrible warmth on his cheeks, and when he finally regained control of his feet and stepped out, he wanted nothing more than to sink down into the pavement and die for the fact that Ivan thought he had been waiting for the car door to be opened for him.

Like he was a fuckin' princess.

The shame was unbearable, but he held his chin high nonetheless and tucked his hands into his coat, hoping against hope that he would drop dead of a heart attack before he could be led into even more mortifying situations.

Unfortunately, no such thing happened, and as he shifted his weight, Ivan smiled.

"Well. Here we are."

"Mm."

Silence.

Ivan cleared his throat.

...he should have nicked that other bottle from within the cabinet and tucked it inside his coat. Maybe that would have proved helpful.

Toris was beaming at their clumsy interactions. Bastard.

"Well," Ivan finally said, "We better go ahead and get settled in!"

With that, he turned on his heel and walked forward, and Ludwig had no choice but to follow behind, stifling his nausea.

The new theatre gleamed out bright in the cold night, its glowing lights cast so far up above that the haze blocked out the stars, and when he pulled himself from the car, he felt a wave of dizziness fall over him as he stared up at the elegant columns and huge Cyrillic letters.

A Soviet theatre for the Soviets. High-class.

He was not welcome here. Not dressed so awkwardly, and when he glanced down at Toris and Ivan's shoes, shined so meticulously that they gleamed like black glass, he suddenly felt inadequate.

He did not belong in this extravagant, wealthy world.

Shifting his weight anxiously, he struggled with the urge to crawl back into the car and jack it, but Ivan reached out and seized his hand in a firm vice, and escape was no longer an option.

"Don't look so nervous!" Ivan reassured, as he began to pull him towards the stone steps, and even though Ivan was trying to comfort him, the nausea just wouldn't go away.

The glow of the lights became brighter as they approached the doors, held open by well-dressed attendants, and as they crossed the threshold and passed from chilly night into the warm lobby, the crowd of people was already quite impressive, waiting either in line to buy or present their tickets.

Maybe they hadn't gotten there early enough. Such a long line.

Reaching up again and assaulting his already abused collar with nervous fingers, Ludwig looked up at Ivan, and it was mortifying to know that he would have to stand here in front of all these people, underdressed and obviously lower-class and having his hand held by a war hero he didn't even know.

Shameful.

His worn shoes looked strange upon the Italian marble.

But the eternity of strange looks that he was anticipating was abruptly interrupted as suddenly, as if from thin air, a young attendant rushed forward with a wide smile, so eager that he all but skidded to a halt before Ivan. A respectful bow, and then an excited greeting in Russian, and Ludwig could only avert his eyes to the floor as his cheeks burned red.

Thankfully, Ivan's hand around his own did not seem to be anything of great interest, and maybe the Russians did things a little differently; _surely _they did, as Ivan leaned forward, tucking something casually inside the young man's pocket, and they shared a brief kiss upon each others' cheeks.

No one even spared them a second glance. Maybe such contact was not unusual.

Then the man straightened up and said something quite cheerfully, waving his hand beckoningly in the air with a smile. An invitation to follow, and suddenly Ludwig found himself being pulled along by Ivan, whose anxiety seemed to have disappeared in what was, for him, a more comfortable environment. Toris held the flank, silent and calm.

They were led straight behind the lobby full of people and towards a door. It was pushed open, and behind it sat a long, dimly-lit hallway, at the end of which were two staircases curving off to either side.

Ivan tugged him along, and the man led them upwards, and the long staircase turned into another long hall, and Ludwig felt the adrenaline lurching through his veins.

Dark, secluded, unknown and mysterious and belonging to the enemy, this theatre was much colder and intimidating from within than it had been on the outside, and he wondered, ridiculously, if there were wires in the walls and around the lamps and KGB officers listening through headphones off in secret rooms, just waiting to hear a strange comment or an unfriendly tone, and oh God! If they overheard someone speaking in German, maybe they would come marching out and arrest him right then and there, dragging him off to God only knew where, and Gilbert would be left alone in his misery—

He shuddered at the thought.

Ivan smiled over him suddenly, as though he were reading his mind, perhaps trying to toss upon him some confidence.

It didn't work.

The hallway cut around a corner, and there was another door. Letters in Russian, and the attendant fell to a halt, smiling pleasantly as Ivan gave him a parting pat upon his shoulder, and then he was gone. Reaching out, Ivan pushed the door open with a steady hand, and it was with a strange little alarm in his mind that he realized it was a private balcony.

Was Ivan so important that he had his own place set aside for whenever he decided to drop by?

Somehow, that thought was worse than lurking spies within the walls.

...maybe he had gotten in way over his head.

"We're still early," Ivan said, cheerily, "Look! They haven't even filled half the seats yet."

Stretching out his neck, just a bit, Ludwig peered down from above, shifting back and forth as he tried to calm his nerves.

Well, at least no one would see him, all the way up here. Maybe that was why Ivan had wanted to come here. To keep up appearances' sake. That possibility hurt his pride, if only a little, because he had not _asked _for any of this, and he pulled his hand back quickly when Ivan's death-grip released.

"Don't you like it up here?" Ivan asked, oblivious to his turmoil. "It's nice here. I like watching the shows alone. I can't stand sitting next to someone I don't know. Alone is better. Well, that is," he added, too quickly, "I'm not alone this time, of course! I mean, I like watching them alone because I don't have any friends here, not really. But... That is..." Struggling for words and maybe discouraged by Ludwig's lack of participation in the conversation, Ivan finally summed up with a half-hearted, "I guess it will be nice to have company for once."

Right.

Looking over automatically, he meant to incline his head and say, 'Well, what about _him_?' because Toris was certainly here, and he seemed to follow Ivan around like a second shadow, so Ludwig was fairly certain that Ivan had never truly been here _alone_.

Then again, hadn't Toris instructed him to just forget that he was here? Maybe Ivan did that too.

Opening his mouth and losing his voice, he could only shrug a shoulder and settle himself down into one of the two seats. Ivan was quick to follow, propping his arm upon the rest eagerly, and Toris seemed content to nestle himself back in the shadowy corner and cross his arms above his chest.

Almost like some kind of lookout. Strange.

Ivan so close next to him was unnerving.

As the seats below began to fill up and quiet, polite chatter echoed in the auditorium, and suddenly a thought struck Ludwig.

An oddity.

"I don't remember seeing you buy any tickets," he muttered aloud, mostly to himself (had he been _that _out in space?—he didn't think so), and Ivan only sent him a causal smile, and with a wave of his hand neatly deflected.

"Oh. Who notices such things? Tickets are overrated, anyhow."

Ludwig could only furrowed his brow, and even though it was a _strange _comment, to say the least, and even though it made him think of _that _word, he shrugged it off and tried to focus his mind on other things.

Such as Ivan's hand sitting there on the armrest, dangerously close to his own.

The jostling of the orchestra as they settled.

Anxiety.

A brush of warm skin against his own as the lights began to dim. With a jolt, he snatched his hand away and folded them neatly in his lap, keeping his eyes firmly on the stage ahead as he strove to hold composure, despite the color he knew must have been on his cheeks.

He could feel Ivan watching him.

This night could _not _end soon enough.

Goddamn Königsberg, Kaliningrad, Leningrad, Stalingrad, whatever the fuck they could possibly want to call it. It was not worth all of this.

Dumb Gilbert.

In an effort to keep himself from screaming in frustration, he asked, lowly, "What are we seeing, exactly?"

Like he even knew any ballets. An opera would have been better.

Ivan was happy to answer regardless, and whispered, in what could have been relief, "_Swan Lake_!"

"Oh," was all he could think of, and Ivan came in all the closer, until there was hardly any space between them, using the guise of whispering as an excuse to lean in, no doubt.

"Don't worry," came Ivan's voice next to his ear, and he jumped a bit in surprise when a heavy hand fell upon his shoulder. Ivan sent him a cool look, as though nothing were out of the ordinary, and despite the freezing nervousness in his veins, he tried to smile.

Obligation was a terrible thing.

Ivan's smile was constant.

"Here!" came another voice from behind, and he jumped again (Christ almighty, he was _so _nervous!), but when he looked over his shoulder, it was just Toris, holding out a piece of paper. He took it automatically, grumbling thanks, and when he looked down at it, he realized it was some kind of playbook.

He realized, too, that Toris was teasing him, because it was in Russian.

Toris was just providing Ivan with ammunition, and sure enough, Ivan leapt upon the opportunity to prove useful and leaned above him, taking it upon himself to read every sentence out to Ludwig, with that heavy hand still upon his shoulder, and above Ivan's pale hair, Ludwig sent Toris the dirtiest look he was capable of.

Toris, that sadistic little bastard.

His look was obviously ineffective. Toris just smiled.

Ivan's voice was soft and soothing in his ear, but he was barely listening, the words going in one ear and passing straight out the other as his foot began to tap on the carpet.

"...and you see, finally, she commits suicide since the spell can't ever be broken, and he jumps right after her. When they die, the sorcerer's power is destroyed because of their sacrifice." A barely audible sigh. "Isn't that romantic?"

Ha.

Well, he didn't know much about romanticism, that was for sure, and it surprised him that someone like Ivan, huge and intimidating and dangerous, was speaking about this impending ballet with such an eagerness in his voice, as though he were about to see the most exciting thing on earth.

Glancing down as the lights dimmed down even further, casting them in shadows, he could see a gleam coming from the belt around Ivan's waist and immediately recognized the handle of a gun.

A rush of adrenaline, but it faded quickly into something like curiosity.

It _amazed _him, if amazed was the right word, that Ivan sat here now, staring at the stage in anticipation, pale eyes scanning the orchestra with a hawkish scrutiny, waiting for the music to strike up and for the dancers to come out, looking calm and comfortable and absolutely well-bred and well-mannered, as if this was how he always was.

The side of him that he presented to Ludwig.

But there was another side too, one that Ludwig had not been witness to, not directly, but he had seen its aftermath, and Ivan's quiet tranquility here was made all the more fascinating by the fact that he was armed, even in such a non-threatening place, and it was a reminder that Ivan was not just a clumsy, awkward enthusiast of romantic arts. He was intelligent and intentional, observant and calculating, fearless and confident, not afraid to use violence to get his way and having no qualms about manipulating circumstances to tilt in his favor.

Romanticism walking hand in hand with psychosis.

Well...

At least no one could ever accuse Ivan of being _dull_.

A silence fell over the auditorium, and Ivan's hand finally removed itself from his shoulder as he whispered, "It's starting."

Ludwig wrenched his eyes away from Ivan's gun, and tried to focus on the stage.

A hesitation, and then the orchestra started up with a flourish. The lights on the stage came up in a silvery display, and when the first dancers whirled onto the stage, Ludwig leaned back into his chair, feeling somehow absolutely ridiculous.

He could only imagine what Gilbert would say if he could see him now, sitting up in a Russian theatre and watching a Russian ballet next to an unknown Russian, in the lap of luxury and opulence, in a place he had absolutely no business being, watching men and women in impossible tight clothing prance around the stage as waltzes sang out a story he did not really understand.

He felt silly. This was above him, perhaps.

He was glad that Gilbert would never know about this. He would have laughed at him, saying that ballet was just for girls.

Surreal.

It was one of the most _surreal _moments of his life, being in this grand theatre next to a man he did not know, not really, in the midst of all these wealthy Russians who would _never _welcome him as one of their own. The extravagant jewelry on the necks of the women glittered in the low lights, turning the high, arched ceiling into a kaleidoscope of dancing colors, the conductor stood above the orchestra on high, and he could feel Ivan's eyes upon him the entire time, even though they did not speak. And every time Ludwig shifted his weight, Ivan would wrench his head over with a look that was almost alarmed, as though he were suddenly worried that Ludwig was going to get up and leave in a fit of boredom.

But he would never do such a discourteous thing, even if he were so bored that he was on the verge of death, and he would do it even less to Ivan (who might end up shooting him to preserve some honor if he did so), and when he fell still again, Ivan's look of apprehension faded into one of relief.

Trying to push away Gilbert's nagging voice in his head, Ludwig braced his shoulders and tried to really focus his attention on the events down below, convincing himself that if someone as big and dangerous as Ivan was here, then ballet was definitely not just for girls.

And when he was finally able to pay attention, he was startled.

A little.

He had never known people were capable of moving like _that_.

Graceful and almost weightless, they seemed to defy even gravity itself, and some of them leaped so high that he could scarcely believe that they could land with such light steps. He was so clumsy, perhaps, that these dancers could do nothing _but_ fascinate him.

A woman in white, floating across the stage with elegance, like the swan she was no doubt portraying, and as the minutes turned into hours, he didn't even notice, and suddenly it wasn't even a ballet anymore.

A man grabbed her up by her waist and twirled her on high.

It was a story.

No words. They weren't needed.

And that was something that Gilbert had never been able to understand, anyway. Sometimes words were not necessary.

The prince courted the swan.

The background of the moon and the lake shone out from the darkness.

He could only sit there, enthralled, not even realizing that he was leaning forward, the Russian playbook forgotten in his lap as the blue and gold lights came up and down, white changed to black, the music rose and fell, the dancers moved across the stage with otherworldly elegance, and the whole time, Ivan just sat there, smiling.

Had he been able to take his eyes from the stage, he might have realized that Ivan had probably not seen but a few minutes of the performance, his eyes seemingly glued elsewhere.

He didn't notice.

The strangely ominous skirt of the woman in black spun like the wing of a bird, and despite his blurry comprehension of exactly what was happening, the sense of dread was inescapable.

Ivan's fingers on the armrest tapped absently.

He gripped the playbook within his hands.

The swan danced out her betrayal and despair.

A crescendo of music, and it must have been _hours_, but it had felt like only minutes when the swan and the prince finally fell, she for escape and he for love.

White.

A final clash, and the orchestra fell still.

An eruption of applause from below, but Ludwig could only sit there, staring down at the stage with a furrowed brow as Ivan clapped politely at his side.

The story had taken a dismal turn.

The lights came up, and he realized, finally, that it was indeed finished.

Silence, and then Ivan leaned in and asked, somewhat anxiously, "Well? Did you like it?"

Ludwig, still staring down below, was momentarily at a loss for words.

Ivan shifted strangely.

"That's it? That's how it ends?" Ludwig finally managed without thinking, and somehow, even though it was just a ballet, a play of sorts, the disappointment was almost crushing.

Ivan watched him for a moment, and then said, "Well, other companies use different endings. Sometimes, both of them live. Sometimes not. I like this ending."

Ludwig sent him a look of incredulousness.

"It's nice when they live," he added, appearing to be amused at the look on Ludwig's face, "but when they don't, I think it means a lot more, you know? It's easy enough to say you love someone when you know everything's going to turn out okay. Dying for someone is different. I like this ending."

For a stunned moment, Ludwig could only stare, and then he pulled himself to his feet, tucking the playbook in his pocket and shrugging a shoulder.

Strangely thoughtful words from someone so intimidating.

"Well!" Ivan said, as he too stood up, "Let's get going."

Toris leapt forward and pulled open the door, sticking his head out and observing this way and that, and when he looked over his shoulder and smiled, Ivan strode towards him, Ludwig following slowly behind.

And he had _just _started to think that that hadn't been so bad, not so bad at all, when that same attendant from earlier came rushing forward with a smile, and Ludwig could only watch as he ducked down his head and held out a bottle of wine, which Ivan took with eager hands and a pleased voice.

Ludwig watched with interest as they conversed with each other, the lingering disappointment of the unhappy ending of the ballet ever dissipating, and Toris suddenly fell into his side as he eyed the bottle from the side.

"'93!" Toris observed, smiling at Ludwig amicably, "That's a good year!"

Ludwig only sent him a look.

'Good' must have meant 'really expensive', and it was obvious from the ginger handling of the bottle that he was not so far off. Ivan's love of the theatre was no doubt enhanced by the fact that he was treated with obnoxiously fine wine on his way out.

Ivan reached into his coat, like he had before, and this time Ludwig could see that it was a little stack of bills that was being placed in the attendant's pocket with a friendly contact.

Passing of money. Luxurious gifts just for showing up.

...ah. Well, this was unusual.

But he shrugged it off, pushing back his ominous thoughts, and tried to carry on as they came into the bright lobby and the bustle of exiting people.

He didn't want to think about _that_.

Off to the side, as Ivan tucked the expensive bottle cheerily under his arm, someone seemed to recognize him and came forward with a smile and a greeting in Russian, but there was a flash, and suddenly Toris had materialized in front of them, hands hidden in his pockets and smiling in a very strange way, and the man fell to a stop and raised his hands in the air in a gesture of submission, and after a short conversation, Toris fell back, and the man reached out to shake Ivan's hand.

Ludwig watched with a furrowed brow as this particular display happened again and again on the short walk to the door.

Someone came forward to speak to Ivan, but they found themselves thwarted by little Toris, who needed to be placated and diffused before they could ever hope of coming near.

...unusual.

How _strange_, that Toris was so anxious of anyone approaching Ivan without him knowing damn well who they were and what they wanted—

—_mafia_—

—when Ivan did not appear to be someone who would be a target for anything malicious, and besides, Ivan could take care of himself.

He shuddered.

_That word _had been threatening to pop into his head for a while now, but he had managed to keep it at bay until these strange events.

He didn't even want to _consider _the possibility that Ivan was really just...

"That was nice, wasn't it?" Ivan chirped quite merrily, and Ludwig might have actually been able to form a coherent answer if Ivan had not, at that second, reached out to the young man holding open the door and stuck _another _little stack of bills in his breast pocket with gentle words in Russian—

—_mafia_—

—and the man broke into a smile and inclined his head to Ivan in a gesture of deep respect. Toris smiled, too, and walked so silently that even his boots made no sound on the sidewalk as they burst out of the doors and into the cool night air.

Ludwig's brow was ever lowering.

Toris watched shadows with alert eyes.

...eh.

Ivan was _not _making it easy to push _that word _away.

Goddammit.

When the car was in view, he felt a great rush of relief, and he was much quicker to leap inside of it then he had been to get out. As Toris took his place in the front and Ivan huddled into the back, he was relieved that he had survived this 'date' intact.

At least it had passed quickly.

"That was nice, wasn't it?" Ivan asked, as Toris started up the car, and Ludwig folded his hands in his lap.

Actually, it had been..._nice_. It hadn't been so bad. And he said as much with a calm nod of his head, and Ivan's smile widened.

"I'm so glad you liked it! I was worried you wouldn't." A quick, friendly pat on his shoulder, and then Ivan added, "Well, hopefully you'll like where we're going next, too!"

A silence.

His relief was gone as quickly as it had come.

Next?

Oh, Christ. He had assumed he had completed his duties for the night. Numbly, and knowing that he was still under an invisible contract, he could only grit his teeth and smile, nodding again as the car pulled back out into the street.

The hour felt very late. Who else was awake at this time of night? Cities never slept, sure, but people did.

He turned his head to the window, observing the passing city streets.

The moon was high.

Where were they going now?

He waited in silence, but neither Toris nor Ivan seemed to have any intention of enlightening him. If he wanted answers, apparently, he would have to seek them out rather than wait for them to be presented to him.

"Where are we going?" he finally whispered very quietly, as he stared out of the window, and when there was no response, he dared himself a quick glance over. Ivan was looking about this way and that, as though he had been watching Ludwig and then had tried to play it off by pretending he was just taking in the sights.

They passed a bridge.

No answer.

He realized, with a squirm of something that almost felt like an uncomfortable guilt, that Ivan had not heard him. It had been rude of him, for sure, to have already forgotten that Ivan's hearing was considerably less than perfect.

A price of war.

Maybe that was why Toris was so alert all the time. Toris was Ivan's ears.

He would have to speak loudly around Ivan. Well. Speaking loudly was never anything he had had a problem with. God knew he had always had to shout to get his words to penetrate Gilbert's thick skull.

"Where are we going?" he repeated, and this time he was heard, as Ivan smiled over at him and responded, simply, "Out!"

It was so _late_. Where could they possibly go?

He looked up at the clock tower as they drove slowly past.

Midnight.

The streets came and went, and suddenly the buildings were unrecognizable, as they drove deep into the heart of the city, places he had never wandered into, not even when this had been Prussia.

Trying to space out again to pass the awkward silence, he stared down at his hands in his lap as Ivan's foot tapped upon the carpeted mat.

The glow of the moon steadily turned into the glow of shop lights, and he realized that, despite the late hour, this part of the city was still wide awake.

And so was Ivan, who began to hum to himself.

Minutes of irritating not-knowing, and then finally the car came to a halt. Dumbly, he raised his head when he heard the click of the car door. Before them was a brightly-lit restaurant, nestled in this more opulent part of the city, warm and elegant and glowing out from the dark.

He felt out of place already, and as he observed the wide windows, he could see that the waiters within wore flashy black suits.

Great. He could not bear much more of this. Why couldn't Ivan understand that he did not belong in this scenery?

Yet again oblivious, Ivan leapt out of the vehicle eagerly, straightening any wrinkles from his clothes and smoothing down his hair, and he shifted his weight restlessly back and forth as he waited for Ludwig to haul himself out.

He took his time, feeling his heart racing in his chest as Ivan tapped his foot on the pavement.

It had been one thing to be in a crowded theatre with Ivan.

But this was considerably different. He would be at a table with him, unable to escape scrutiny should it fall upon him, and he would be sitting there with him for all to see.

The mortification was numbing.

He had no appetite.

However, like the theatre, there was no getting out of it, and when Ivan started walking, there was no choice but to follow.

Oh, how Gilbert would _owe _him for all of this.

He could hear the lolling water of the bay in the distance.

Walking through the doors, held open in the same manner the doors of the theatre had been, was exceedingly uncomfortable.

At least, he tried to encourage himself, Ivan wasn't holding his hand this time.

The lights of the restaurant were a soft white, complimenting well with the red tablecloths and the dark wood of the floor and chairs, the crimson curtains and the white roses in the centerpieces, and the entire scene just screamed _rich_, and he had no doubt that this was where the city councilmen and the mayor and maybe even the governor came to have a meal and spend time amongst their own.

Ivan fell to a stop, and Ludwig looked up.

The maître d' stood behind a small, polished mahogany desk, book before him and looking very well-groomed and somewhat severe. Immediately, his eyes fell upon Ludwig, scrutinizing his clothing and observing his shoes, but there was no vocal rebuttal as Ludwig was dreading, and he knew full well that it was only Ivan's presence that kept him from being promptly thrown out.

It appeared that Ivan's presence made ripples everywhere.

And instead of asking for names so that he could check the reservation log, the man just inclined his head and snapped his fingers, and from nowhere a waiter rushed forward, tie perfectly straight and shoes shining, and he offered a greeting and held out his hands, expectantly. Ivan removed his coat, handing it off without even the slightest of reservations.

The man took the coat and handed it off carefully to another waiter, and it seemed strange to Ludwig that Ivan would just _trust _them with it (who knew what valuables he had in there), but then again, maybe no one here would ever _dare _to touch something that belonged to Ivan without his permission.

Ludwig spared a glance at Ivan, now coatless and more visible to observation, and yet without the huge coat his presence was somehow all the more intimidating. In full military uniform, his medals gleaming in the light and broad shoulders perfectly squared and straight, the Soviet stars visible upon the patches, a carefully tended leather strap like that of a belt across his chest, every button shined, and Ludwig once again felt criminally underdressed.

There was little time to dwell on it, and the waiter was leading them through the tables, winding this way and that.

He felt strange walking at Ivan's side.

A former Soviet hero, and _his_ brother had fought against them in the war. Did that make him a traitor? Gilbert would think so.

Led to the front of the surprisingly bustling restaurant, the waiter came up to a small, rather personal table that was nestled in the middle of a half-moon of curving windows that overlooked the moonlit bay. A view that somebody else had obviously been anticipating, but the waiter reached out and plucked the little sign that surely said 'reserved' up with swift fingers and tucked it in his pocket.

It may have been reserved, but apparently Ivan didn't care.

And neither did anyone else, for that matter, and there were two more men suddenly upon them, pulling out the seats and brushing everything down and hovering over Ivan like flies, apparently more than eager to wait upon his every need. Agitated and feeling uncomfortable, Ludwig took a seat, and Ivan followed.

Toris, after a moment of observation, scuttled over to the bar and settled down, perhaps to have a better view of his surroundings.

Ludwig squirmed.

Another surely expensive bottle of wine was set upon the table without it having ever been requested.

This whole thing was suspicious, to say the least.

He sat there in silence, surrendering control of what was ordered to Ivan, who obviously knew his way around this place, and twisted his hands nervously beneath the table.

Looking over the room from the corner of his eye, he could see the other well-dressed patrons glancing over at them curiously, and he felt that increasingly familiar flush upon his cheeks, and looked away.

Ivan was smiling, casually, and after a great silence, he reached out and placed his scraped hand upon the middle of the table, like he had the desk at their last meeting, and said, lowly, "Are you always this nervous when you go out?"

A hesitation, and then he said, curtly, "I don't go out."

Ivan's smile never fell, and he only tilted his head, and finally chirped, "Well! Don't worry about everything so much. Just relax a bit. I'm not going to bite you."

Shifting anxiously as Ivan leaned forward, the low-hanging lights catching his violet eyes and lighting them up a pale lavender, Ludwig leaned back and tried to steady himself.

Relax.

Right.

Glancing back over his shoulder, he tried to pick out Toris, and after a second of sifting through the crowd, he finally saw him.

Ivan followed his gaze, and said, perhaps apprehensively, "I'm sorry if having him here upsets you. I didn't even think about that, I guess. I was just so—! I'll think things out a little better from now on."

The statement was somehow unnerving, as though Ivan knew that there would be a similar circumstance in the near future, and he tried to take his mind from the thought of a second date.

Alarming.

On the other side of the room, obviously in a much better mood, Toris sat at the bar, nursing a drink as he chatted with the bartender quietly, indigo eyes never still as he scanned the room this way and that, one hand upon the bar and the other up inside his coat, and every time the door opened or a new voice rose above the crowd, Toris pinpointed it immediately and watched with a very alert eye. A twitch of calculation and suspicion, and then Toris would fall still and carry on his conversation with the bartender, and several minutes later, the same pattern.

Toris kept a careful eye on everything happening in this restaurant.

And Ludwig _realized_, finally, that Toris was more than just Ivan's ears.

A bodyguard. Toris was a bodyguard.

A bodyguard?

Why in God's name would someone in this relatively calm city need a bodyguard? It wasn't like they were in Moscow or even Berlin, not a dangerous city. Someone like Ivan, nonetheless, who could obviously take care of himself, a Russian amongst Russians. It wasn't like he was the outsider here. This was _their _city now, and so why would he possibly need—

—_mafia_—

—a bodyguard? Did people actually _have _those? It seemed more like something from the movies. Maybe it was just a display of power and position, rather than an actual need. But then—

—_mafia_—

—if that were the case, would Toris need to be _so _alert and _so _serious?

Oh.

God.

This was not good. Not good. Gilbert's voice was painfully loud in his ears. Warnings of danger.

...oh, _why _hadn't he listened?

Trying desperately to push _that _thought away, he placed his palms on the table in a manner similar to Ivan, and asked, voice so weak that it cracked, "So, ah... What—what rank were you?"

Ivan smiled, wistfully.

"Colonel. I had wanted to make lieutenant-colonel, but the opportunity just never came around before the war ended. I decided my time was over."

"Ah."

Ludwig shifted restlessly, trying to ignore the hammering of his heart. A waiter passed by, and paused to lean down and whisper something in Ivan's ear, and Ivan reached up and gently patted his cheek, and the man placed a paper within Ivan's rough hand, which was promptly tucked away.

As the waiter left, he caught Ludwig's eye, and sent him a cheery wink.

Ludwig's cold dread was steadily rising.

Ivan passed off the event like it was nothing unusual, and he started speaking, but his words were garbled and distant as Ludwig tried to imagine what in Christ's name could possibly be written on that slip of paper.

Maybe it was better not to know.

—_mafia_—

He was losing this battle.

"You must come here a lot," he finally said, unable to conceal the tremor in his voice as Ivan finally took up the corkscrew and uncapped the bottle of wine, turning the glasses upright and filling them to the brim.

Ludwig did not take his, leaving it sitting there forlorn as he withdrew his hands and ducked them yet again under the table so that Ivan would not see them shaking.

What had he gotten himself into?

"Every now and again," Ivan replied, unconcerned, "I like to stop by sometimes when I'm not busy. See how things are going, you know."

How things were going?

Seeing his look of confusion, Ivan shrugged a glossy shoulder, and added, neatly, "I invested in this place when it was still just an idea. The owner was a good friend of mine." Waving a hand in the air, Ivan gave a quick laugh. "I think my investment paid off, yeah? Look how well it's going!" A short sigh. "It's a shame old Dimi isn't here to see how well it took off."

Ludwig must have paled terribly (_was _a good friend? _Isn't here_? Oh Jesus!), for Ivan's brow came down in concern, and he asked, voice high, "A-are you alright? You don't look so well all of a sudden."

Too quickly, Ludwig said, loudly and awkwardly, "N-no! I'm fine. Fine. Just fine. Everything is alright. Alright..."

He wanted to start running and never stop, but instead he smiled, weakly, and Ivan fell back into his chair, looking relieved.

"Oh. Right. I'm glad."

Ludwig could feel the nausea creeping back.

"So," he began, very, _very_ carefully, "What, ah... What happened to the owner?"

Ivan rested his chin in his palm, and said coolly, "Car accident. Old fool thought he was a mechanic. Did all of his maintenance himself. He must not have been that good, because his brakes went out on the way to St. Petersburg."

"Oh."

Brake failure.

Right.

Right.

The tremor of his hands was made all the worse, and then, as if the universe itself was trying send him a bright, blinking signal, a different waiter came up from the side and placed a bottle of vodka upon the table, pointing his finger to the bar. Ludwig looked over, instinctively, and could see a group of four or so men waving at Ivan amicably from across the way. They had sent over a gift, and Ludwig could not help but notice that they were dressed immaculately and held cigars within their hands, and he had never _seen _a group of more suspicious-looking individuals—

—_mafia, mafia, mafia mafia mafia mafia mafiamafiamafia_—

—and Ivan just waved back at them like they were just old friends, looking very much at home, a knowing smile upon his face.

The wine glass was annihilated, and then another was poured.

Ivan was loose and comfortable. Carefree.

...brake failure could happen to _anyone_, right?

Oh...

_God_.

Ludwig gripped the tablecloth in his hand beneath the table as the waiter left, and he could feel his bravery and his nerves crumbling.

The wine bottle was already empty. His glass sat untouched.

Nerves were collapsing.

Crumbling...

Ah...

_Ah_!

That was it.

He couldn't hold it in any longer. He had to know.

_Now_.

Twisting his hands nervously within the silk cloth, looking this way and that as waiters bustled around, he finally gathered the courage to ask, lowly and suspiciously, "You're not... You're not in the mafia, are you?"

There!

He had said it.

There was a short silence, as Ivan stared at him unwaveringly from above the rim of his wine glass, and then he tossed back his head and laughed.

_Loudly_.

Ludwig could not find anything particularly amusing.

And then he realized that everyone was looking at them, and the busting restaurant fell strangely still as everyone turned to stare at them as Ivan's loud laughter filled the room.

His mortification intensified.

Maybe Ivan didn't realize how loud he was. Maybe he didn't care.

...oh, _thank God _that Gilbert didn't know he was here.

Finally, Ivan's loud laughter died down into soft giggles, and then leaned forward and chortled, cheerily, "That's silly!"

He seemed perfectly content to leave it at that, and Ludwig shifted his weight anxiously in his chair, because that was _not _an appropriate answer, and it certainly wasn't a 'no'.

Oh, _God_. What great goddamn mess had he gotten himself _into_? Couldn't Ivan have just said 'no'? Would that have been so fuckin' hard?

Reaching up and burying his face in his hands, he could only stifle a scream and wonder why he hadn't _listened _to Gilbert. Just this once.

Finally, he could feel the eyes upon him leave, and he could sense Ivan shifting across the table.

He wished he would just keel over dead. But he didn't, and instead, Ivan decided that having been accused of Mafioso tendencies was no reason to end the conversation.

"Say, are you having a good time?" Ivan asked suddenly, leaning farther forward, and Ludwig split his fingers open to glower at the leering Russian from behind them, and cleared his throat. "It's just... You look a little down, you know."

Was he having a good time?

...no.

_Could _he have a good time?

...unlikely.

Ivan reached up and waved his hand in the air, and when a waiter came forward with another bottle of wine, Ivan took it up and refilled his glass.

"Aren't you going to drink?"

Looking down, Ludwig let his hands fall in his lap, and watched as Ivan tipped his head back and finished off another glass neatly.

Obviously an accomplished drinker.

"You don't talk much, do you?"

He shrugged a shoulder, and now, Ivan was leaning forward again, and Ludwig noticed that his fingers were tapping the table, over and over again. Looking up, he also noticed a strange twitching of Ivan's brow, and an odd half-heartedness in his constant smile, and he realized that Ivan was starting to get a little down too.

And for a moment, that made him feel a little better.

Who knew? Maybe this was Ivan's first date, too.

With that embarrassing thought in his head, he reached out and grabbed up his wineglass, and brought it up. Ivan's smile returned as he began to drink, and then he fell back into his seat, watching Ludwig with a sigh of great relief.

He needed a little wine in his system right about now. He put the glass back quickly, Ivan poured him another, and as the moon rose ever higher above the bay, his attitude went from a terrible horror more towards what could have been a quiet resignation.

Well, if Ivan really _was _in the mafia...

He could at least try to make the night go as smoothly and as comfortably as possible, and it would be a wise idea to do everything in his power to appease Ivan before he found himself cut up into pieces and thrown out into the Vistula lagoon.

Right.

He took every glass Ivan poured him, and before the clock struck two the second bottle was long gone.

Warm and a bit looser, he felt a little more comfortable. Sure, anyone's brakes could go out, but that only happened to people who got on other people's bad sides, and so far Ivan seemed to be enjoying his company. After tonight they would be even, and he wouldn't have to worry about encountering a strange accident anytime soon.

The food came and went, Ivan's cheeks were a faint shade of red, and Ludwig made an effort to engage, however stiffly, in the conversation.

And conversation was something that Ivan did not lack.

"So, Ludwig, were you born here?"

"Yes," he answered, even though he wasn't sure if he really had been or not, and Ivan nodded his head, his smile becoming increasingly lopsided as he continued to put back the wine.

"Ah! Hometown. It's nice, isn't it? I haven't been to my hometown for many years. I don't even really remember what it looks like anymore. I like it much better here, anyway. Nicer people, you know."

Toris was still watching them, and when he caught Ludwig's gaze, he sent him a wide smile. Well, at least Toris was having a good time on _his _date. Jerk.

"I'm sure," he drawled, absently, twirling his glass in his hand and watching the gentle waves in the bay from the window. A little boat stood on the distance, glowing white in the light of the moon.

He could feel Ivan's eyes upon him.

"I'm really glad you came," Ivan finally said, voice somewhat sloppy, "I was really worried that you weren't going to show up. I mean, I guess I wouldn't have blamed you. It must have sounded a little strange, having a stranger ask you such a thing! You're so polite, though. I really admire that."

Ludwig smiled, eyes still on the water, and let Ivan ramble.

"All the people back in Moscow were such jerks! I hated it there. St. Petersburg is a little nicer, but it wasn't really what I was looking for. But I really like it here. It's pretty. German architecture is really magnificent, you know? I love the old buildings here. The weather is nice too. Not too cold."

Ivan's voice lowered a bit.

"It's a shame that they ran you all out, though. That was such a dirty trick. They spent all that time drilling it into our heads that the Germans were coming to take the land out from under our feet, and then as soon as we won we just turned around and did the same goddamn thing. But, I guess it's all just politics. There aren't any bad countries. Just bad politicians. That's what I believe."

Well, he could agree with that. Another strangely thoughtful comment.

In the fashion of intoxication, Ivan's heavy, serious ranting became suddenly light and airy, and he leaned forward and crooned, earnestly, "You're really pretty, you know?"

Ignoring the jolt of adrenaline, Ludwig only sent him a quick glance, and said, coolly, "I hadn't noticed."

Ivan's voice was easy and friendly as he said, "And modest too! I could always tell that you were a good person! I can't stand rude people, I really can't, and I always liked how you came out and went into the stores like nothing was different. You could have cursed us and no one would have blamed you, but you never did. I liked to watch you when you went down the streets. Your hair is a pretty color. You reminded me of summer."

Embarrassed, Ludwig leaned back, and finished the last of the wine.

"Yeah, I saw you watching me sometimes."

He nearly said 'stalking' but caught himself at the last second.

And, at any rate, being shamelessly complimented wasn't the worst thing in the world, and the not-so-subtle stroking of his ego was somewhat pleasant. It was better than hearing Gilbert's dismal comments.

"I'm sorry if I ever made you nervous! I didn't mean to. I just liked watching you. I like how you walk."

Ludwig observed the meticulous uniform and the flawless presentation of Ivan, and finally asked, "It doesn't bother you at all, being seen with me?"

"Should it?" Ivan wondered aloud, and then he waved a hand dismissively, "So what? People always talk. It doesn't bother me. Maybe they don't like the Germans, but I don't care. They wouldn't ever say anything to my face about it anyway. I'd really give them somethin' to talk about."

Ludwig snorted, despite himself, and nearly smiled. He could not help but feel better. Maybe it was the wine helping him out.

Ivan must have noticed the waning of his melancholy, and seemed encouraged.

"Don't let it get to you anyway. If anyone bothers you from now on, just tell me. I'll take care of it. Besides, this was your city first. They should respect that. Most people here are all rich socialites from Moscow, anyway. I wouldn't mind teaching any of them a little manners."

Remembering the numerous paintings that adorned his home, Ludwig observed, carefully, "So you're not a socialite, then?"

An almost humorous widening of Ivan's eyes, and he said, fervently, "No way!" Ludwig raised a brow, and finally Ivan amended, "Well, not really. I mean, I don't consider myself an elitist, like them. I don't like being in the center of attention like they do."

It was probably true.

Ivan _was _elite alright, but he wasn't a socialite. He was an elite _criminal_, probably.

Oh well. One or the other, Ludwig supposed, and most socialites were probably criminals too, one way or another.

Changing the subject, Ivan asked, casually, "How old are you now?"

A hesitation, and finally he answered, "Eighteen."

He should have lied and made himself older. That might have been wiser. He did not want Ivan to think of him as a dumb, naïve teenager. Someone to take advantage of.

Ivan's face fell, strangely, and he said, "Oh! You're younger than I thought!" A slight ducking of his head, and he grumbled, perhaps to himself, "I feel old now."

Sensibly, Ludwig did not ask Ivan his age. He could hazard a guess at any rate and put him around the same age as Gilbert. Late twenties. Maybe early thirties, at the most. Hardly an old man.

Ivan had a flourish for exaggeration, it seemed. Not a terrible thing.

The hours ticked by, the warmth of the wine slowly faded, the shady characters at the bar left, Ivan sobered up and Ludwig began to drop his guard, and when the hour struck four, Toris came over and placed a hand upon Ivan's shoulder.

"It's getting late," he said, as he caught Ludwig's eye, "We should go."

Ivan's brow lowered in disappointment, but he nodded nonetheless, and Ludwig was relieved.

Hopefully, Gilbert was still passed out.

The sun would rise soon.

Pulling himself to his feet, Ivan took the bottle of vodka that had been given to him and handed it off to Toris, and the waiter came rushing over with his coat as Ludwig stood.

Throwing it on and giving the waiter his due tip, Ivan allowed Toris to lead the way to the door, and as the staff offered affection-dripping farewells to Ivan's back, Ludwig heaved a great sigh of relief.

He had successfully avoided being murdered. And that was _always _a good thing.

Not too bad.

The cool night was comforting, the air from the bay salty and pleasant, and he could not help but feel a bit proud of himself. Not only had he survived, he had held up his end of the bargain, kept the house secure, and saved Gilbert.

Not bad at all.

Ivan was happy too, and that was certainly a good thing. Maybe his services would be needed again in the future.

Once again, he found himself in the back of Ivan's car, bathed in the aroma of leather and musk, and this time, he felt much more at ease, knowing that he would be going home.

Home. He had protected his home.

Just by placating Ivan.

Ivan had been right all along; that _had_ been a small price. It hadn't been so bad.

In a considerably better mood now than when he had left, he watched the waves of the bay until it was no longer in sight, and listened to Ivan's serene humming.

Moments of silence in which he daydreamed of seeing Gilbert smiling and returning to his old self, and then Ivan decided to resume the conversation.

Like usual.

"That was fun, wasn't it?" Ivan suddenly piped up, and Ludwig did not have time to answer before he suddenly found himself caught in a very heavy gaze, and Ivan had leaned in so close that he could smell the cologne he wore as he added, eagerly, "We should do this again!"

...again.

He opened his mouth, could think of no good response, and merely sent Ivan a half-hearted look, and allowed him to finish whatever was obviously on his mind.

Ivan did not hesitate, and when he spoke again, his voice was suggestive and gentle and _very _coercive, "Well, you know, sometimes it can be a hard thing to get around the government. Sure, I got rid of one for you. But I hope you don't think it will be the last!"

Ludwig's brow lowered, because he _had _considered that possibility.

But he stayed silent, and Ivan threw his arms behind his head, looking straight ahead as he continued, the very image of complete confidence, "I can—that is, if you want, of course—I can take care of those problems for you, too. But wouldn't it be annoying for you to have call me every single time something happened? Why don't we just figure out something else instead?"

He found his voice again, and he had _meant _to say, 'I think I'll just call you, thanks,' but his body and mind did not seem to be cooperating, and when he opened his mouth, what came out was, "Well, what did you have in mind?"

Ivan's smile widened, and he was annoyed at himself.

Damn mind of his.

"_Well_," Ivan crooned, casually, "Let's make another deal. I'll just take care of everything like last time. I'll keep an eye out, and make sure nobody bothers you ever again. You won't even know that there was ever a problem, that's how good I'll watch out for you! Constant protection. All day, every day. Does that sound good? And in return..."

Ludwig shifted, and he could feel Toris' eyes upon him in the rearview mirror.

"Well, let's just say that I'll give you this—let's call it _insurance_—and all you have to do in return is just let me take you out every now and again. That's all. It was fun tonight, wasn't it? See, I don't ask for a lot, do I? What do you say? I'll keep watch, and all you have to do is just come over whenever I call. Not so hard, is it?"

Insurance. Yeah, something like that.

Ivan would keep watch over them, and in return he would come running every time Ivan called.

Shifting again, he leaned back into his seat, and he could feel Ivan watching him as he awaited patiently a response.

Well, it wasn't like tonight had been so bad...

Maybe it was the calm before the storm, the eye of the hurricane, perhaps, where the winds were still, but it hadn't been as frightening as he had imagined, and Gilbert had _laughed_.

By God! That sound.

Gilbert had laughed...

Bracing his shoulders and inhaling to steady himself, he waved a hand in the air and said, "Sure. Why not?"

Ivan appeared calm and confident, but his voice was very high and thin, as though struggling to contain himself, when he chirped, "That's great! We get along so well, don't you think? I'm glad everything is going so well! I admit, I was little nervous earlier. I thought you didn't like me for a while."

Ludwig shrugged a shoulder, awkwardly, and muttered, "Sorry. Like I said, I don't get out. Often."

Ivan seemed satisfied at this answer, maybe even pleased, and when he looked up, he realized the car was pulling into the drive. He hadn't even noticed they had left the center of the city.

A last lurch, and Toris cut the ignition, and waited.

Ivan sat still, and seemed reluctant to step outside and officially end this date. Rather, he sat there, drumming his fingers on his knees and glancing at Ludwig almost anxiously.

And now things were awkward again.

Silence.

Ludwig reached up, and scratched his collar.

So awkward...

Toris seemed the most enthusiastic of them all, and looked quite content to listen in on their inelegant exchanges as he had before, smiling in _glee_. _Again_.

Finally, Ivan cleared his throat, and murmured, "I'll call you soon."

Without thinking, Ludwig said, "For God's sake, make sure it's me before you say anything. My brother will not take so kindly to this."

A silence, and then Ivan said, casually, "Well, I could always put the guard dog down, if you wanted—"

His look of absolute horror must have been apparent, even in the dark night, and there was a large hand on his shoulder as Ivan immediately added, fervently, "It's a joke! I was joking!"

He could only sit there, frozen, and suddenly that apprehension was back in Ivan's voice as he repeated, more gently, "It was a joke! I wouldn't... I mean, well... "

Somewhere inside, he wondered if it really _had _been a joke. Oh, God, he _hoped _it had been a joke, but he did not think it was. There had been something in Ivan's voice...

"I'm sorry. It was just a joke. Bad taste! I apologize."

Jesus Christ. What had he gotten himself _into_?

"Oh, come on, please... Don't be—it was just a joke!"

Seeing Ivan's look of alarm, he gathered himself and shook it off, because he _needed _Ivan, and finally, he managed, a weak, "Oh. Right. Sorry, my sense of humor is a little...lacking."

Ivan's pale eyes lightened with relief.

"My fault. Sorry, sometimes I make bad jokes. I'm not very good at such things. I'll just keep my mouth shut next time, okay?"

He could only nod, and Ivan finally opened the door and stepped out, and Ludwig followed suit when Ivan had opened his own door. It was a relief to be back in the open air.

Toris was suddenly looming off to the side again, so silent that Ludwig had not even heard him get out, and he shuffled his feet as Ivan stared at him, suddenly caught in another moment of extreme awkwardness.

How was it that the 'goodnight' was more uncomfortable than the 'hello'?

The breeze moved the vines hanging from the house. The moon gleamed down. A faint glow on the horizon as the sun neared its rise.

And then Ivan suddenly reached forward and took both of his hands within his own, and said, lowly, "I'm glad you came with me tonight. The ballet was a lot better with company. I had a good time! I...hope you did, too."

He looked down, silently, at Ivan's great hands around his own.

Ivan, whose rough hands were scraped and raw.

...well, it hadn't been so bad.

"I'll keep an eye on things," Ivan said, as he gripped Ludwig's hands firmly, "So don't worry so much. You can really see it in your face, you know, when you're worried. Even though you try really hard to hide it."

He could feel that horrible warmth on his cheeks, and furrowed his brow as Ivan smiled.

"You look so much better when you smile. Try to smile more, and I'll take care of everything. You worry too much. You're too young to have such cares... Let me take care of it for you."

Another silence, and he looked up, catching Ivan's amicable gaze with something that felt like...

Well...

He didn't really know _what _it felt like, because he had not felt _hope _for so long, or happiness or even just peace. Not for a long time. Just endless worry, anxiety, and that deep-seated fear and dread. But suddenly he didn't feel so bad now, and the thought of having someone watching over, making sure that everything was alright, as Gilbert steadily recovered from his depression once he realized that maybe they were _finally _secure, was somehow relieving. He did not like engaging in the risky business of putting his fate in someone else's hands, but maybe this gamble had paid off.

Gilbert would not kill himself if there was no longer the threat of being cast out.

He could try to carry on with life as normal. God help him, he was grateful.

Ivan's hands pulled away, and when they clasped behind his back, Ludwig finally found his voice, and said, hesitantly, "Thank you."

Ivan's smile was constant.

"Go home. Get some sleep. I'll call you soon. Next time, we'll go wherever you want to go, alright?"

He could only nod, and felt his shoulders lowering, as his defenses lowered too.

_Oh_, could he _really _go home and sleep and just not _worry_?

It was a strange notion.

"Goodnight," Ivan said, as he took a step backwards, and Ludwig stepped back as well, reaching out for the gate. As he pushed it open, and slipped through, he could still feel eyes upon him, and it wasn't as alarming this time.

As he went down the street, Toris called, "Night!"

"Goodnight," he called back, so lowly that Toris probably couldn't even hear, and as he walked, his feet were clumsy in a mixture of sleepiness and exhilaration.

Everything was alright.

He would just sit back and know that everything was alright, and Gilbert would be alright too, and he would just wait for Ivan to call. In the meanwhile, everything would be taken care of.

And for what! Just a date, every so often? It could have been worse.

Of all the things he could have been asked to pay for this 'insurance', of what he could have been obligated to offer to this unspoken Mafioso, a date every now and again hardly seemed like the worst thing.

Gilbert need not know.

It was almost satisfying, somehow, to know that his actions were keeping them safe and sound and at home. As though he were suddenly the eldest, protecting and guarding, like Gilbert had done when he was younger.

It felt good. He liked the responsibility.

The edge of danger.

Maybe it was all ego and pride, but so what? Gilbert and his parents had sheltered him when he was a child, and what better way to repay them then by assuring the safety and the security of their son and their house? Their name and history? He longed for the opportunity to prove himself.

It felt _good_.

Gilbert didn't need to know.

All that mattered was that they were kept safe. Who cared who the guardian was? It didn't matter. Ivan was a godsend, offering protection and assuming the role of quiet sentinel, and all at a very reasonable price.

They _owed _Ivan.

Even if Gilbert would die before he would admit it.

He would assume this new responsibility like he had assumed all the other ones, and would not complain. He did not have the luxury of complaining.

When he slunk back home and crept silently inside, he felt much lighter than he had when he had left, and as he reached down and gently roused Gilbert from sleep and hauled him into his bed, it was with confidence and an almost unfamiliar sense of serenity. As soon as Gilbert hit the sheets, he was out again, and this time Ludwig stayed with him to share his bed, something he had not done in years, and he was _so _proud that he had found a way to make Gilbert happy again...

Ivan was a godsend.

One way or another.

* * *

><p><strong>AN : **LMFAO at bodyguard!Toris. XD


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